Microaggressions in therapy 🙃

I just saw the ask about the "demographics of people who ship daxton or benvi" and like, I'm not involved in any of these ships, I just watched the show casually so I'm not trying start drama or whatever but like, I gotta say, I am an Asian woman and I was pretty uncomfortable watching S2 because of Paxton. The character is good and I like him but I can't not think about how this is a 30 yo man playing a teenage boy when the show insists on sexualizing him by undressing him or when he kisses Devi. I am well aware that teenagers have sex and everything but the actor is an adult and that's just uncomfortable to watch you know. I wouldn't be surprised if this was the reason some people didn't like Paxton's character.

I'm not implying everyone who doesn't ship devi and paxton together is racist. There is just a certain fan here or there that immediately discredits Paxton because he's Asian American. That said, I know people find it uncomfortable that Darren is 30 and Maitreyi is 18 (19?) I've said it before that I understand if that bothers you! It's fair! Some stuff that can help give more context, Darren was cast first, before they knew that Maitreyi (who is quite young) was cast. But mindy and Lang and Darren and Maitreyi have talked about how they have intimacy coordinators on set (which is a new function of film/tv these days but mindy insisted on it so everyone was comfortable and professional.) For at least season one, (i can't say in response to season 2 but I think it's likely) everyday one of Maitreyi’s parents was always on set and all the cast said they loved her parents. And finally, Darren is dating an actress from some movie he did in Vancouver last year. The actors are professional and every care is taken on set to keep it professional.

I’m not telling you this to convince you one way or another, I just wanted to let you know, especially about the intimacy coordinator because that’s a big deal and the women running the show are taking all appropriate precautions to keep Maitreyi safe. As for the way Paxton is sexualized, I have major issues with it. The jokes about the moms loving him (Trent's mom was so creepy!) the story about how he went to prom in 8th grade, and yes, the blatant sexual lens he's being viewed through does make me uncomfortable. A teenage boy should not be sexualized like that. I don't particularly love anyone being sexualized like that but definitely since the character being portrayed is 16. It's uneahlthy and I've even written in a fic someone saying "I HOPE HE'S IN THERAPY BECAUSE YIKES" because uh, yikes. Sexualization hurts everyone but can be particularly damaging for teenagers. I'd very much like to see less of that as the show goes on but I doubt it. I'm a white lady so I don't have commentary on the points you made about Asian men being sexualized but I agree with what you've said. I know that sexualization and desexualization is a problem for Asian men and I'm including an article that goes a little bit into that and talks about the Asian men Hollywood deems appropriately sexy are often mixed for my followers to read up. It's written by an Asian American woman and it even mentions NHIE.

Asian Americans are Hollywood’s new leading men. It’s not as progressive as you think

Dancing With Dragons

He knew something was wrong the moment he came to his senses. His entire body trembled with pain as he was forced to awaken from his blissful and painfully unaware sleeping state. The sound of beeping monitors and the soft echo of shoes tapping on hard floors rose once his eyes opened. Moments later, a doctor was there to greet him and inform him they were at the hospital, yet still on base. The battered-up brunet saw a glimpse of himself in a mirror given by a nurse. His hair was matted and dirty, his body stitched and bandaged. 

It took the doctor a moment before telling him that not only was he being sent home on an honorable discharge, he also had a terrible accident. It wasn’t losing his men or killing civilians, as one would assume. The tragic loss was the left stump that was now his leg, bleeding through the bandages. His green eyes widened at the sight. No words left his lips as his entire body shut down. As a result, the doctor pumped his IV with morphine to cause the soldier to rest. However, the shock never truly left him.

In all honesty, he wasn't too proud of going off to the Marines like he had. He thought that if he left his art scholarship and went to the army, his dad might actually be proud of him. And for a moment, the old man was. With his buzz cut and high rankings through bomb tech and military tacticians, he had been put in the hand of his squad. His father was proud of him every day.

Yet, it only took a single bomb to set back everything. He came home taller with lean ropes of muscle, a haircut and a foot gone. The looks of sympathy were worse than the disapproval. He spent months in the hospital and physical therapy, though it did nothing to help his mental state. His hair grew out back to the long length it had once been and he could actually walk in a straight line with his prosthetic, yet he still felt as weak as he was all those years ago. Even as a twenty-seven-year-old man, he still looked to his father for approval and now only saw that same disappointment.

There wasn’t anything he could do to change that’s man mind. 

***

Today, Hiccup Haddock the Third found himself outside a small dance studio recommended by his redheaded, Scottish doctor. To say he was nervous would be an understatement. 

The brunette sighed, looking down at the floor of the car.

“You ready?” his best friend asked from the driver’s side.

The man grumbled, “No. Take me home.”

Jack scoffed and turned off the car as to not waste the gas. Hiccup knew what that meant; a lecture from good ole’ Jack Frost. 

“Doc said it was going to help your coordination and that this girl was a good friend of hers. She’s not even going to charge you! What’s the worse that could happen?” the white hair male asked.

Hiccup gave him a look, “I fox trot myself into falling on my ass?”

Jack narrowed his eyes, “Get out of the car and go get better or so help me I will pull you out myself.”

The brunet rolled his green eyes before opening the door and lifting his legs awkwardly out of the vehicle. He slowly stood up, only to bend down and look back at his buddy. 

“Two o’ clock right?” 

“I’ll be here. I promise,” Jack said with a smile. The veteran closed the door and with a sigh, wobbled his way toward the dance studio. He was still slow in his walk and looked stiff. He refused to use a cane as it only furthered his disappointment and loss of his normality. Besides, it was mostly the pain that bothered him rather than his appearance. 

Everything inside him screamed that this was a bad idea.

His father had ingrained in him that real men don’t need help. Then again, he wanted a lot out of his fishbone of a son that didn't have much to give in the first place. 

Hiccup walked up to the door as the colorful fall leaves crunched under his boots. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a button up dark green shirt with a warm leather jacket over it. Now that his hair was long, he used a ponytail to tie it back. It showed off more of his sharp jawline and many, many freckles.

He hesitantly knocked on the door. 

Many thoughts swirled in his mind at the moment. Dr. DunBroch could have at least showed him a picture of her friend to ease his nerves. If she was cute, then this would most definitely end badly. If she wasn’t attractive to him, then it still probably end with him falling on his ass. 

With an awkward turn on his good foot, he only waited a second before heading back to the sidewalk. Hiccup was at the ready to pull out his phone to call Jack to turn around.  

Hiccup dialed Jack's number as the autumn wind tried to penetrate through his thick jacket. He hated the cold. The worst part of being out in the desert was the nights. It was always freezing. 

He brought the phone up to his ear, his other hand in his jacket pocket. 

As the phone rang, he heard the door behind him open.

“Hi, I’m Rapunzel. Are you Hiccup?” 

He turned to see who called his name. The person before him made his eyes widened. Oh this is bad. This is very, very bad. 

She was beautiful. 

She was a petite woman who wore a strapped rose pink dress that brought out the pink of her cheeks and the spring green of her doe eyes. Her hair was held up in a messy bun of golden strands. There was no makeup on her face to taint the natural beauty she possessed. Her lips were in a natural pout as she waited for him to answer. 

He gulped, ignoring the voice that yelled at him on the other end of the phone line.

He decided this was much worse than what his imagination concocted in his head. The last thing he wanted was to be exposing his flaws and handicap by falling all over the place in front of a beautiful woman. Warmth flooded his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He gave her an awkward smile, hanging up the phone and putting it in his pocket. Hiccup took a couple of careful steps towards the door, though he still wobbled a bit. 

The brunet stopped to take a deep breath, his smile gone from what he was about to say. His green eyes filled with a bit a self-loathing, but mostly embarrassment. 

“Umm, hi. Yeah, I’m Hiccup. Dr. DunBroch referred me here, but I think it would be best to continue going back to physical therapy. This dancing thing isn't for me. I was never coordinated, even before my accident. I'm sorry if I wasted your time.” 

He could see her face fall when he told her that he wouldn’t be taking her class. It seemed like she was almost looking forward to it. No, it couldn't be that. Injured veterans are charity cases. She was probably just trying to validate herself through some civic duty to a soldier. Just another person to pity him.

These emotions made Hiccup turn around. He couldn’t take looking at her hurt face any longer. He closed his eyes tightly at how stupid he must have sounded. He took out his phone again while walking stiffly towards the sidewalk once more.

All he heard was a soft “Oh, of course. No worries” from her before the door closed behind him, leaving him out in the autumn wind.

Haddock you asshole, he thought to himself. 

He called Jack again.

“What?” 

“I’m ready to go home.”

“You didn’t even go to the class, did you?”

“This is stupid. I want to go home.”

“Your doctor said this was the best chance you have to walk normally that’s faster than therapy. You can’t just walk away because you’re uncomfortable!”

“I can figure it out myself. And I’m not walking away. It just isn’t for me.”

“I’m not picking you up.”

“Then I’ll walk.”

“Are you crazy? You can barely walk as it is! No offense.”

“How is that not offensive?”

Hiccup was about to utter something to his supposed best friend when he felt a small tap on his shoulder. It made him turn around, his phone still up to his ear with Jack barraging him. 

The petite blonde stood behind him, out in the cold with her dance outfit on. 

She smiled at him and handed him her card. “Here. It’s my business card,” she explained. 

“I know you may not want to now, or ever. But if you ever do want to have a session in the future, I just wanted you to know you have other options. I may not be a licensed physical therapist, but I do know a few things about dance,” she joked, letting out the most melodious giggle Hiccup’s ever heard. 

Her words were almost lost on him because he found himself looking into her green eyes now that they were closer. They were green like summer grass. He felt like he was getting lost in all that was simple about her. That’s what it was. She was simple, uncomplicated and without drama. His whole life had been a series of problems and complications. Hell, his name was Hiccup: he was a mistake and a problem within itself. Even his own occupation was full of bomb techs, guns, drills, training and war mechanics. When he got home it was hospitals and surgeries, family issues and planning. She seemed so simple.

Hiccup reached for the card and, in doing so, gently brushed his fingertips with hers. That short contact caused jolts of electricity to run up his arm, followed by a bright crimson blush flustering his face. 

“Oh, th-thank you,” he muttered out. She gave him one more heart-stopping smile before spinning around in a dancer’s fashion and going back into the building. 

“Hiccup? Hic who was that?” Jack’s voice finally registering into the memorized brunet. 

“Th-that was my instructor. Sorry Jack, I gotta go. See you at 2,” Hiccup rapidly uttered before stuffing his phone once again into his pocket and following the direction of where the blonde beauty went. 

When he did catch up to her, she was beginning to put her speaker away and looked like she was closing up shop. Hiccup cleared his throat before knocking on the open door and entering. 

The blonde glanced towards him, tilting her head to the side a bit like an adorable curious puppy. 

“Hiccup?” 

He chuckled at that, whether it be to hide his incredibly nervous emotions or because the way she said his name was on the rapidly growing list of what he enjoyed hearing from her; her giggle being the first. 

“I, I’m sorry about before... This is all so foreign to me,” he started. 

She placed the speaker aside and began to walk towards him, Hiccup doing the same until the pair met in the center of the room with only their reflections in from the ballet mirrors to accompany them. 

“Well, If you’re up for it, I don’t mind helping you get un-foreign to it,” she grinned, her smile never failing to clench the inside of Hiccup’s chest. 

What was this girl doing to me? 

“What the heck, let’s do it.” 

What did he just get himself into? 

Spoiler-Filled Reaction to the 1st Ep of TFATWS: ‘New World Order’ ...

Okay, so I may switch up and do weekly recaps via audio. Either way, I’m getting something out before the weekend is up... Still!...  It’s a been a few days, so I can go a bit more in depth with my thoughts on that pilot ep.

~ So, that opening was quiet and down-to-earth. For me, it was hammering home not only the humbleness of Sam (despite the bravado, the man is naive in his optimism and *not* superpowered), but being stuck in his initial thoughts about the shield.   ...That it didn’t feel like it belonged to him. Sam’s personality, has been established as super-loyal and almost childlike in his feelings that things will work out and doing the right thing because it’s right (which is why he didn’t get paid enough BTW naive pride). 

-which comes into play w/ his conflict w/ his sister later... I’ll come back to that.

~ We jump into a dangerous mission that shows off Falcon’s personality. He’s gonna get it done with style and optimism even when working with equipment that needs a few updates.  The stunt coordination here was fantastic!  I legit whewed! aloud at Balroc paragliding into *multiple* helicopters... Sam’s hair-pin turns milimeters from canyon rock, propellers, and rockets... ~ I *loved* Torres’ fanboying. It felt like a parallel to Sam fanboying Cap, in CA:WS and evoked the well-established superhero trope of a person *marveling* aloud at what you’re doing making it so. much. cooler. (as an oldhead, the random black dude emoting about Superman’s suit after he comes out of a phonebooth, in the Reeves movie, is my earliest memory of this trope). ~ Then we see the Tunisia titlecard, which yea! it didn’t just say Africa, but ehh, once again “yellow tint” is code for “exotic” country full of brown people. It did cut through the typically more alt-right-tinged military propaganda w/ the Tunisian man thanking Sam for saving his wife, the bare minimum of humanization... but it saved the scene from just “backdropping” the people/culture w/o any humanity, at all, as is typical... That and the way these two BIPOC spoke to one another (there is a certain kind of rapport we non-white folk have w/ each other) was my first hint...that this showrunner ain’t a white dude. The joking about him knowing Arabic...like cheering/teasing when we show our range to one another.  Mainly, this interaction was to show that Sam is to Torres what Steve was to Sam in some ways...with a bit more “brazen kid” on Torres’ part, along w/ introing the idea of the Flagsmashers. ~ Then, naive Sam decides to donate the shield to the Smithsonian...because he doesn’t feel like he’s earned it and because in his mind it still belongs to Cap and because he’s out here trusting this governement even after all the B.S. he’s done lived through.  Even Rhodey was having his doubts... Maybe being around during the blip makes a person more savvy and cynical, IDK. ~ So, then we see Buck in therapy and since I’ve been through trauma, I know that mindset.  Sticking to routine is a big “win”.  Not really caring about anything beyond the bare essentials (yall saw that man’s apartment). And the feeling of being displaced would be amplified by the fact that this man is more so than anyone who has existed(!).  ~ I noticed that Seb leaned into his Rom-Merican accent, which was a great acting choice, it evokes his sense of having traveled without a solid sense of self in a place, because he was essentially, asleep all those decades, while the brainwashed aspect of himself was enslaved to Hydra. I LOVE his therapist.   Fannishness for a cute guy, means a lot of people don’t like her being “mean” to him... But I’mma tell you, as someone who actually has been in therapy for a good bit, you *need* someone who will call you on your bullshit so you can properly work on it.  I love that she’s also a vet and there’s nothing cutesy and coddling in a male-gazey sexy or motherly way. She’s doing her fucking job and not letting his ass slide. To me, that read as a hat-tip to a woman drecting this. So, we see Buck manifest his trauma w/ profound discomfort in his own skin.  He doesn’t know how to interact anymore, how to swagger in this strange time and place (because dude had all kinds of 1940′s swagger and juice back in CA:TFA) So, he’s just awkwardly honest, and beating himself up for that. But... he’s still alive, so he totally perked up in the presence of this attractive server and Yori notices and like so many old people, just busted his chops and skipped all the what he wasn’t gonna do and did it for him, w/ Leah’s confidant acceptance -ahhh, I luv her!- as an assist. ~ Then we flip back to Sam in Delacroix and we meet his sister and his nephews and his community(!) which really nails down Sam the man, the person, the human apart from his underwritten assists to the Avengers. We see that Sarah knows and loves this naively optimistic ‘I will find a way to fix it because it’s the right thing to do’ hard-headed brother.... but good-God! he doesn’t know shit about real-world day-to-day struggle... If you’ve seen Anthony Mackie in The Hurt Locker... one of the big themes explored, is how tough it is for vets who have been through explosions and firefights in another country... to adjust to day-to-day struggle in “normal life”. THAT is what Buck’s therapist was calling out when she said BULLSHIT to him saying he wanted peace (lol, no he doesn’t, like Sam he wants that righeous kind of adrenalin only being in action for “good” gives) and what Sarah is frustrated w/ is regarding him not understanding or respecting the kind of struggle she had to deal w/. ~ As an aside I *loved* her *nose-scratch* “Can I talk to you for a minute??” Whew! That is a black-ass way to let you know someone is pissed w/ you and wants to hash all the shit out. That’s why Sam avoided it, lol... ~ So, the date with Leah, who does all the right things...Goes terribly, because Buck is still too deep in his trauma focus on anything about how great she is.   Note, that just about everything that happened on that date reminded him of aspects of his trauma to the point where Buck, (being an absolute dick!) just fucking, walks out on her!!  I NEED her to chew his ass out for that and I need him to *not* be able to make it up to her (and I’d also love some fanfic, where Buck actually does *ahem* treat her well... I know Asian women be shorted in fanfic too!) ~ So, he goes to Yori’s apartment and stares like an obvious knucklehead (still dealing w/ being stuck in his trauma) at the alter to the man who was just in the way of that brainwashed aspect of himself, pays for the lunch and walks off...AND, NOTE!!  YORI DID NOTICE ALL THIS. So, this will eventually come to a head...yikes! ~ Then we’re back to Sam, and Sarah who tries to have that talk, but old boy ain’t trying to hear it. Insisting that he’s the man to swoop in and save the boat and the business *sigh* by some magic (hanging with magical beings...will do that, I guess). And Sarah smartly is just frustrated and skeptical, but lets him go on and try and fail in the same ways she already did so. many. times... in those five years. ~ And then we see bb Torres being brazen kid stupid amateur spy w/ the Flagsmashers. I honestly thought old masked dude stomped him to death, at first... The camera pan showed the cliched dead-man pose, after all.  I guess he pulled that (super!)stomp, which means... Flagsmashers aren’t the lethal villians here IMO.   I think they escaped from the *real* villian. ~ And then comes some real world racist bullshit... This scene at the bank *nails* a particular kind of frustratingly infuriating racism that is common. Where they will act like they are doing you a favor because they like and want something from you... but still won’t serve you in the same way they would a white person. It’s this strange willfullly “I like you negroes, you entertain me! -but fuck you -but I still like you!” patronizing thing that we know all too well. *whew!* That was real. And then that heartbreaking scene where after Sarah rightly told-ya-so’s.  -Sam is working on that mess of an engine and reality *finally* sets in when the key  didn’t even attempt to turnover.

~ Then Torres messages Sam (and he’s alive!) and we all know Sam knows these Flasgsmashers got super-serum, but isn’t saying. Even TORRES knows (bless his heart). ~ And from there we go straight to the U.S. government rubbing salty dirt in Sam’s wound with the new/fake Cap holding the shield aloft and winking like “It’s mine now, bitch!”. ---And the credits, I won’t get into except to say if you want ALL the spoilers in the credits, watch that linked video, I posted earlier. But they are SIGNIFICANT spoilers.

Bucky Barnes Oneshot

Warnings: a couple of bad words

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: After being injured on a mission, Bucky winds up spending a day with the Avengers newest recruit. Bucky x Reader

A/N: This is my submission for @nacho-bucky ‘s writing challenge! My prompt was ‘the smell of freshly baked bread’. As a side note, I drank a whole pot of coffee yesterday and wrote this in one afternoon, so it’s also unedited :) As always, let me know what you think! 

By the time the quinjet is an hour out from New York, Bucky Barnes is in an irredeemably foul mood.

Breaking up terror cells in Germany was supposed to be an easy mission - in and out, with the practiced ease of their well-oiled strike team. Really, they took the mission to spare German special forces the trouble...that, and a potential connection to an old Red Room contact of Natasha’s. With their “dream team” (Sam’s words, not Bucky’s) of Cap, Bucky, Sam, and Natasha, this should have been a light op, a scrimmage, Nerf ball.

Turns out superheroing is a contact sport, and they’ve got the bombs and broken ribs to prove it. A train station, a decoy, and an explosive device Natasha failed to disarm. With Sam coordinating civilian evacuation, there had only been a couple dozen injuries, but the suspect had slipped away, leaving them bruised and empty-handed.

Bucky had taken a brutal hit as he pulled Nat to safety, and now he is curled in his seat on the jet, metal hand holding his ribcage. He watches Steve scowl in the cockpit, jaw unflinchingly tight as he goes over the mission in his head. The captain doesn’t know how to let things go - never has, never will. Sam is actually piloting the quinjet, making unreturned small talk about a basketball game he went to last weekend. Natasha sits across from Bucky, a Stark tablet in her hands, dissecting bomb schematics and diagrams of diffusion techniques. There’s a little scab of dried blood on her bottom lip that she pokes at with her tongue, red brows lowered in concentration.

Bucky is exhausted - his hair smells like dust and smoke, his mouth is tangy and dry. There’s dried sweat underneath his uniform and he itches and his feet are hot in his boots and his ribs really fucking hurt. He lets his head fall back against the seat, and wishes they were home already.

**********

She pops her head up over the back of the couch when she hears them. What a sight they make: Bucky, propped up on Steve’s shoulder, Natasha dust-covered and buried in her tablet, Sam still sweaty and tugging at the harness on his suit. She still smiles, tentative but kind.

“Hi guys.” She lifts her fingers in a little wave. “Everyone okay?”

Bucky grunts in response; Natasha says nothing, making a beeline for her room and a shower. Sam, without doubt the most talkative person on the team, props himself on a stool and blows a harsh breath past his lips.

“We’re alright, yeah,” he sighed. “Barnes is a little beat up but he’ll get over it - he’s just  dramatic.”

“Fuck you, too, Wilson.” Bucky flips Sam off over his shoulder as they hobble towards the elevators.

She winces, not yet used to their harsh banter.

“Hey man, be nice in front of the rookie, alright?” Sam hollers, mock-offended. “You’re creating a hostile work environment!”

Steve chuckles a little at that, jostling Bucky’s tender ribs, which makes him scowl at his best friend.

“Bucky is a hostile work environment,” Steve deadpans. They’ve reached the elevator, and shuffle inside, turning to face the common room. Bucky catches the rookie’s eyes as she giggles behind her hand.

“She’s fine,” he rolls his eyes, sparing a wink for the rookie. “When I make it hostile, bird brain, you’ll know.”

The elevator doors close, and he leans on Steve a little heavier, and jabs his elbow into Steve’s stomach.

“Thanks a lot for that, by the way,” he huffs.

“What?” Steve feigns innocence, and very poorly. “Didn’t know you were so worried about making a good impression on the rookie.”

“I’m - I’m not.”

“Uh huh.”

“Shut up.”

They meet Dr. Banner in the medical wing where his lab adjoins the clinic; Sam had messaged him half an hour ago that they were inbound with a broken supersoldier, and Bruce had taken the liberty of setting up some of his supplies. Of all the doctors on staff, Bucky favored Dr. Banner - he was mild and soft-spoken enough to not trigger Bucky’s anxiety, in spite of the needles and IV drips and the snapping of latex gloves.

An X-ray and some bandages later, Bucky is removed from the active duty list for two weeks.

“Even with your advanced healing factor, I wanna be careful with this,” Bruce says, taking off his glasses to scratch the side of his nose. “I mean, your medical history is a little blurry, to say the least - and with all the shit HYDRA pulled, who knows what kind of stress your bones have been through before.” He taps away on his tablet, notifying FRIDAY and the admin system to remove Bucky from the roster. “In the meantime, take it easy - no missions, no training, no lifting weights. Probably avoid the motorcycle, too. I’ll check on them again in two weeks, and we’ll go from there.”

Steve is nodding - he never leaves Bucky by himself in medical - and crosses his arms. Neither of them have changed out of their uniforms yet, and in this sterile observation room, Bucky can finally smell the layers of grime and sweat clinging to them. His nose wrinkles when he gets a little whiff of himself, feeling bad for the nurse who bandaged his ribs.

“Oh I almost forgot -” Bruce turns around and reaches for something on his lab bench. A little blue bottle, full of round white pills. “Here. I developed these for the two of you - since you metabolize normal painkillers so quickly, I figured we might need something that would work in the event you sustain heavy injuries which…well, seemed likely. Take 2 every 4 hours, okay?”

His metal fingers grip the little bottle, rattling the tablets inside.

“Sure thing, doc.”

**********

She lifts the hem of her shirt, wiping at the sweat on her forehead, and leans against the wall of the gym. Her breath comes in short pants as her chest heaves, trying to cool down from her last bout with Agent Romanoff.

“Heads up.”

Her hands barely make it up in time to catch the flying water bottle headed for her face.

“Good catch,” Romanoff smirks a little. She’s sweating, too, but in a way that’s decidedly more sexy, little red curls hanging by her face. She looks fresh from a Pilates class, not a suicide workout - the rookie can feel the heat of her own face, the sweat drenching her clothes, and knows she’s not nearly as glowing as her trainer.

“You did really good today,” Romanoff continues. She keeps saying to call her “Natasha” but that is so hard to do with a woman so intimidating her alias is one of the world’s deadliest animals. “Really good. You’ve shown tons of improvement since we started. I’m going to recommend we start letting you shadow on missions in a couple more weeks.”

“Wow, really?” Her face lit up in spite of her exhaustion.

“Sure.” Natasha smiles. “I know it’s gotten a little boring, having you go through all of this.”

“Boring” was an understatement. Despite having a few years of experience under her belt - well, according to Tony Stark, vigilantism barely counts as “experience” - the rookie was assigned to a training program for her first couple of months on the team.

“Too much of a risk to put you in the field right away,” Stark had rattled off, handing her forms to sign and an official t-shirt (‘Look Mom! I’m an Avenger!’) and a tablet with a map of the compound. “Legal says we can avoid liability issues with a training program before we gradually phase you in, and I’m inclined to agree, so! Welcome to the team, but not officially!”

Her days consisted of early morning workouts, followed by combat and tactical training with Black Widow herself, and then...well, not much. There was research, of course, and she stayed on top of the intelligence briefings with the rest of the team. She went to meetings and official dinners and unofficial karaoke nights, but the rest of her time was mostly her own. Frankly, she was chomping at the bit to get back out there, in the action. Helping people.

“Well, hopefully it’ll pay off,” she sighs, giving Agent Romanoff an exhausted smile. “I wouldn’t want to be the weak link on the team.”

“You won’t be, believe me,” Natasha shakes her head. With a glance at her watch, she picks up her own water bottle and heads for the door. “Now I’ve gotta run, Skype meeting with Fury in 5. I’ll see you later, Rookie!”

**********

Bucky Barnes was feeling good.

Like, damn good.

Like, ‘Banner should label his controlled substances’ good.

Thing is, post-HYDRA and post-fugitive and post-cognitive reconstruction therapy, Bucky was more mentally okay than he had been in decades. He had the occasional rough day, and he definitely wasn’t perfect by any means, but with the shrinks that Stark had on retainer, he was getting better at dealing with it all. His physical health, however, was more of a moving target. In spite of receiving a bastardized supersoldier serum, he had been pumped full of so much other shit and gone through so much physical stress that his body had fundamentally shifted equilibrium. Multiple appointments with Dr. Cho and Shuri revealed that his chronic pain may never fully heal - if it did, it would be a very gradual process. Normal painkillers in reasonable doses did nothing for him, so Bucky settled in to his discomfort, carrying it the way he carried his knives and his scars - always.

24 hours into his medical leave, a few doses of pills down, and he couldn’t feel a single ounce of pain in his body - he shifted his awareness to each part of himself, like that guided meditation thing Wanda did sometimes, and he couldn’t find the pain, not even lurking behind the muscle and metal. He might be a little miffed at being off the active duty roster, but if his whole vacation is going to feel like this? Well, he doesn’t mind to let Steve handle the next threat to world peace.

With his schedule suddenly wide open, Bucky wonders what he’ll do with his day. He can’t remember the last time he truly had nothing to do - it’s an exciting prospect. So he lets himself ease through his morning, sleeping in, long hot shower, slipping on those plush Black Widow pajama pants Nat gave him as a gag gift. He knows everyone else will have had their breakfast and moved on to morning briefings and training drills by now, and he wanders down to the kitchen in the hopes that they’ve left him some coffee.

He sees her there, perched on a stool at the island and frowning at the tablet in her hand. There’s a little scrunch to her nose when she does that, he notices.

“Good morning,” he says softly, trying and failing not to startle her.

“Oh, hey Bucky,” she smiles, watches him round the island to the coffee pot on the counter. “I didn’t see you there.”

“S’okay. I’m quiet.”

“You didn’t get tapped for the recovery mission? They’re going after your suspect from Berlin again, I think.”

“Oh, I’m off missions for two weeks.” He turns, giant ‘Don’t forget to be awesome’ mug gripped in his metal hand. “Banner’s orders. You didn’t hear about my smashed ribs?”

“Oh no, I guess not - are you okay?” Suddenly she’s concerned, and a little sheepish. “Sorry, I’m still a little out of the loop I guess.”

He feels guilty for that - she’s eager, bright, kind, a brilliant recruit. But it can take a while before you’re ‘in’ with the team. Not because they exclude her, but, well - a group made up of outsiders has a hard time adding new faces to the mix.

“Don’t apologize. Not your fault.” Bucky digs around in a jar on the counter for a few sugar packets, dumping them into his mug. “Anyways, I’m off the roster for now. Gotta figure out something to do with myself, I guess.”

Her smile is slow, ducked under pretty lashes - he really needs to stop noticing these things.

“Would you - I mean, you can hang out with me if you want?” She chews on her lip. “I’m done for today - my training with Natasha ended early and they didn’t need me in on the briefing so…”

The rookie was lonely - he could see that, anyone could. The fact is, between their own training and missions, it had been a little hard for the team to spend very much time with her. Bucky himself was often a bit of a loner in his free time, preferring to hole up in his room with books and movies rather than go out for drinks or another karaoke night. And yet, he found himself feeling eager at the thought of spending a relaxing day with the new recruit, getting to know her a little, hearing that funny little laugh through her nose.

“Sounds great, Rookie - what did ya have in mind?”

**********

“Okay, I just wanna go on the record and say I called it. I called it!” She’s grinning. “I knew you would love this.”

“Well, hey, in my defense, I’ve never hated beautiful women.”

She just rolls her eyes, kicks her feet out to rest on the coffee table in front of them. There’s a pile of DVD’s, all hers, laying across the surface, picked through and ranked in order of what was most important for Bucky to see. His film education was obviously lacking, considering he missed out on 70 years of movies, and didn’t even know what he liked anymore, so he was content to let her pick. After raiding the kitchen for an array of snacks, they settled in, opposite ends of the same couch with a bowl of popcorn and dark chocolate M&M’s between them.

Approximately 20 minutes into the movie, Steve appears, just passing through for an apple from the fridge. He stops in his tracks behind the couch, the crunch of the fruit in his mouth just above their heads.

“What is this?” he says around his mouthful. If his Ma could see him now, Bucky thinks.

“It’s called ‘How to Marry a Millionaire’ - came out in 1953,” she answers, smiling over her shoulder at him. “It’s one of my favorites honestly.”

“That’s - that’s Lauren Bacall!” Steve perks up, smacking Bucky’s shoulder.

“Yeah, punk,” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Betty Grable’s in it, too.”

“No shit!” Steve is grinning now, and he gives the rookie a conspiratorial look. “Y’know, Bucky used to have her pin-up poster. The one in the white bathing suit? Had it in his suitcase when he shipped out.”

“Oh, really?” She’s looking at him now, eyes sparkling at the rosy blush climbing up Bucky’s cheeks. “Betty Grable, huh?”

He clears his throat. “Well, everybody had that picture, I mean...it’s famous for a reason. All the boys had ‘em.”

“No, no, I get that,” she shrugs. “I just had you pegged as more the Rita Hayworth type, that’s all.”

It takes him back for a second, Steve too, that she knows these starlets, that they could’ve been having this same conversation 75 years ago. He can see that look in Steve’s eyes, sly and knowing as they slide towards him. Bucky works his mouth, tries to control his smile.

“Well, nothing wrong with her either,” he drawls, spreading his arms along the back of the couch. “But did you see Grable’s legs?”

“I just thought you might’ve had a thing for redheads!” she laughs.

“They’re alright, I guess - now Dugan on the other hand…”

Neither of them notices Steve leave the room, tossing the apple in his hand and a huge dopey grin on his face.

**********

“Tell me again what the recipe says?”

“One cup of pumpkin puree.”

“Oh - shit, I thought you said one can.”

She smacks her forehead. “No wonder the batter is so goopy!” She rolls her eyes playfully. “You’re trying to ruin my bread, Barnes.”

“I swear I’m not, doll - it was an accident.”

“Okay, new plan - we just make a double batch since the can has two cups in it.”

She shuffles around behind him, grabbing her flour and sugar and sour cream and other ingredients, hands flurrying to measure and fix the dough. It’s mid-afternoon now, a couple of movies down, and they (she) decided they needed to get in the fall spirit by baking a ridiculous amount of...breads. The banana bread is already in the oven, the pumpkin will be on its way as soon as she fixes his mistake, and a blueberry bread (made from muffin mix) is next on the list.

“But...what’s so special about making it into breads?” He had asked, causing her to look at him like an idiot.

“Ask me that again after you try them, Bucky.”

So he shut up and cracked eggs and sifted flour, stirring when her arm got tired. He was already regretting his words now that the smell of the banana bread was drifting towards him from the ovens, and he had to admit the pumpkin and cinnamon from her bowl was making his stomach growl. With all the bowls and measuring cups laying around, they were making enough sweet breads to feed an army, but hey - the Avengers are practically a small army of their own. And besides, Bucky intends on taking an entire loaf - baker’s privilege.

He decides that he likes watching her work, bouncing around the kitchen, some oldies playlist on the speakers, her tongue poking out between her lips. She’s got her sweater sleeves pushed up over her elbows - he had to help with that, after she got dough on them. This song is good, too, and he wants to ask her who wrote it-

“Are you gonna stand there staring at me, or are you gonna help?” she quips over her shoulder. He has no idea when he last smiled so much.

“You’re the boss, Rookie.”

**********

She’s got her feet in his lap now, and they haven’t said a word in an hour, and Bucky doesn’t even remember taking his last dose or two of his pain pills but he doesn’t feel a goddamn thing.

There’s a huge book in her lap, Stephen King - a favorite, he’s learned.

“I read at least one of his books every year in October,” she tells him. “You know, to get ready for spooky season.”

“Spooky season? What the hell is that?”

“You know, Halloween time!” she smacks his arm. “It’s Halloween first, Buck, you gotta get in the spirit.”

“I’m -” he sputters, face drawn in the most adorably confused look. “Halloween first?”

She hands him a book of his own and now here they are - he’s 20 pages into The Shining, but he’s stopped paying attention because she’s yawning behind her book and her eyes are fluttering shut, and it shouldn’t be as distracting as it is.

He forces his eyes down to his own page, to Jack Torrance and haunted hotels, but they’re drawn back up when her book finally drops the rest of the way to her lap. Her head slumps sideways onto the back of the couch, mouth open just a little. He draws the blanket down around her feet and tucks it in a little tighter, but other than that, doesn’t move a muscle. He’s just fine right here, thank you.

He’s sinking in again, driving up the twisting mountain road to the Overlook, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Carefully - in the way highly trained superspies can be careful - he lifts his hips up and pulls his phone from his pocket, managing not to dislodge her feet or wake her up. She merely sighs in her sleep, nuzzling her face into the couch pillow. A text notification from team group message lights up the screen.

It’s Natasha. A photo, a photo which she somehow managed to take without him knowing, of him and the rookie, practically snuggling on the couch and reading together. Her legs are propped over his lap, and Bucky’s eyes are staring straight at her over the top of his book. Nat has captioned the photo: “looks like Barnes found a good nurse.”

He snorts a little. Natalia. Glances up at her, still sleeping, and tilts his phone upwards a few degrees and snaps a picture to send back.

“She sleeps on the job” he types, thumbs still slow on the phone keyboard. Instantly, his phone starts buzzing with more texts from the team, but he mutes it and lays his phone on the coffee table. He doesn’t feel like talking now. Well, talking to them.

“Hey...Rookie,” he whispers, reaching out and shaking her shoulder a little. She hums in her sleep, but makes no other move.

“Rookie, I gotta ask you something.” He wiggles her leg a little, shaking her feet in his lap, and whispers her name. He’s rewarded with her eyes fluttering open, her mouth drawn down in a pout at being woken up.

“Whatisit,” she sighs, still slumped into the cushions. He clears his throat. Here goes nothing.

“So, there’s a charity gala for the Stark Foundation coming up next weekend,” he starts bravely. “And - and the whole team is going anyway, so I know you’re gonna be there, but - well, maybe you would consider going...with me?” Courage runs out, and his brain backpedals. “I mean, just as a friend?”

She huffs. “I can’t believe you woke me up for that.”

“Oh.” He looks down, hair falling in his eyes. “So...you don’t want to go with me?”

“Of course I’ll go with you, Barnes,” she sighs. “Now shush. I was napping”

His face hurts from the stretch in his cheeks when he smiles. He’s gonna give Bruce those pain meds back.

 So here are my (unasked for) thoughts on the TUA2 trailer.

Luther

Listen, I don’t think homeboy is doing okay. It looks like he’s participating in like an underground fighting ring? That to me doesn’t scream “I am fine and well-adjusted!” And “what’s a wingman” baby, my poor dumb oaf. I hope he gets like...whatever the 60s equivalent of therapy is this season.

Diego

So it looks like Diego is in an asylum? Which would explain the hair and the beard. I also like that they seem to have paired him with another spirited WOC character. Fingers crossed they don’t fridge her (#justiceforeudora). It also looks like the impetus for them to escape the asylum (if that’s what it is) is being attacked by the new Commission assassins. Looks like Lila might be a reluctant tagalong (or Diego might be the reluctant one and she might be chasing him lol).

Also, Diego definitely throws his knife at Sir Reginald (vindication!!) who DODGED which is wild.

Allison

I LIVE that Allison is going to be participating in the Civil Rights Movement; her first shot looks like it’s a counter sit-in. I am so excited to hear Emmy provide insight on this throughout the press tour.

The LOOK that Allison gives when she Rumors Diego is E V E R Y T H I N G to me. It is that Keira Knightley look from Pride and Prejudice. That “how dare this man speak these words to me in front of my salad” face and I am GAGGED.

I also think it is so important to note that Allison ended last season being completely severed from her voice, and it looks like she will be spending a considerable part of this season fighting for her voice - specifically as Black woman in America - to be heard. I like that symmetry. 

Klaus

Klaus somehow travels to India which might be the weirdest part of this trailer for me imho. But founding a cult? So on brand. 

Five

I’m sorry, my heart kind of melts for my poor baby who starts the trailer by CALLING OUT FOR HIS BIG BROTHERS. Also, this future he jumps to looks vaguely Russian? There are red stars on the tanks.

Ben

I love that after S1 the writers were like “Justin is the social media face of this show...lets give him more lines” and they were RIGHT TO DO SO!! I look forward to more Ben in S2, snark and all. “Are you kidding me!?” I love this doofus already.

Vanya

DOMESTIC. FAMILY. CHILDREN. It is as if she got away from the Hargreeves and then decided to create her own family unit to atone for her past (maybe?) and change her narrative (of how she sees herself within a family). It also does look like at one point Vanya is being interviewed with someone in white standing guard behind her, so I’m wondering if she is brought on to be an agent the Commission? (or a double agent!!)

Group shot

Big ole shopping trip? Everyone color coordinated like it’s for a family photo which I think is nice of them! And then immediately engulfed in flames....so I am thinking maybe Five can’t control where he time travels to and they start out jumping around - future, past, future, past - and this scene is one of the futures he brings them to? And then he loses control and dumps them all in the 1960′s.

All in all

The siblings do seem to be interacting a lot more too, which is great. The best scenes of S1 were always when they were together, and I am especially excited to see this Klaus/Vanya/Allison scene in the parlor. I also want Vanya and Diego! Luther and Vanya! More Allison and Klaus! Ben! I want to see so much more of them interacting.

With this whole “the apocalypse followed us” and that opening shot, I am wondering if this season is a set-up for S3? Like maybe the overarching plot line here is that, no matter where they go, the apocalypse always follows? And why is that? And how do they fix it so they don’t always have to be on the run?

Prompt #6: Hobby

Under cut bc this one got long. daaamn. 

-

X'lial hides the last bit of yarn and blinks tiredly as reality finally starts filtering back after who-knows-how-long; the crackling of the ever present fire, the distant howling of the wind and the quiet murmur of conversations happening nearby. She stretches her back until something pops and sighs in relief. 

She finally looks around to thank Haurchefant for letting her invade his space yet again, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Well, that explains the silence and the fact that she wasn’t teased within an inch of her life as soon as she finished up. She shrugs and gathers her things. 

Now it’s time to find her quarry. Mmm. She yawns and waves at Yaelle on her way out, receiving a nod and smile in return from the efficient woman. As soon as she opens the door she’s smacked in the face by a gust of wind and snow, causing her ears to flatten down and her tail to puff, much to the amusement of the few witnesses in range. She gives all of them the stink eye, promising painful and embarrassing retribution later in the sparring ring with one look. They flinch. Good. 

Now, where did Alphinaud say he’d be today? She can’t recall, but this climate is too much for her friends (and herself. Snow, ugh) to be up and around outside unless something dire were to happen. Tataru will surely be in the mess hall, sweetly but inexorably twisting everyone around her little finger like the tiny tyrant she is. Alphinaud thought… X'lial hums and follows her nose in the direction she knows the books are. 

“Gift!” She exclaims, and drops her bounty on her now spooked friend. 

“X'lial!” He exclaims, voice cracking slightly and he cringes, eternally embarrassed by the mortifying ordeal of growing up, the baby. She smirks to let him know she heard but doesn’t comment. Yet. All in good time, her mama used to say. “I… ah… you don’t usually come here!” 

Here being the building that holds the infirmary and also Camp Dragonhead modest collection of books. So she doesn’t like infirmaries, sue her. She has spent enough time bedridden to ever look kindly upon those places, no matter how vital they are and the respect she has for the people that work there. There’s a reason she diligently trains her white magic and it has everything to do with never being on the other side of that equation again. Quite unrealistic as far as goals are concerned but well, nobody ever accused her of being reasonable.

She shrugs in answer and Alphinaud shakes his head.

“What is this about gifts?” He asks, finally noticing the poorly wrapped present at his feet. He picks it up with care, she notes with pleasure. 

“Just…” she shrugs again. It’s just a gift. She doesn’t need excuses to give something to a friend. He’s her friend and she wanted to, so she did. 

“Oh! This is…” the young boy gently strokes the soft yarn of a blue, white and silver knitted hat. The softest yarn she could make from the best wool she could get her hands on. Luckily for her, there’s an abundance of karakul around here and she’s very, very good at killing things. He inspects the gloves and the scarf that completes the ensemble and his breath catches in his throat when he recognizes the insignia of the Scions of the Seventh Down painstakingly stitched in each piece. He touches it with a wistfulness and anguish she sees every day in the mirror. “I… I don’t know what to say. You made this for me? Why?”

“Wanted to,” she picks up the scarf after receiving a nod from Alphinaud and gently wraps it around his bare neck. “Cold.”

He snorts softly. “That it is.” 

He looks back to the gift, inspecting it more closely. The colors are lovely and his favorite and the craftsmanship is perfect, at least to his untrained eye. And he’s pretty sure he isn’t imagining the way the yarn seems to be radiating warmth, just a tiny bit, but it’ll undoubtedly feel amazing out there.

“I didn’t know you could knit.”

She wiggles her scarred fingers in front of him. “Therapy.” 

“Therapy?” He parrots, unsure if he should continue on this line of conversation, but X’lial doesn’t seem bothered and Alphinaud has never claimed to be anything but chronically curious. “I’m afraid you lost me.”

She gives him a long contemplative look, probably gauging how much she’s willing to tell and how much he actually wants or needs to know. She seems to come to a conclusion because she hums and brushes away the hair that normally covers her forehead and shadows her left eye. It’s the first time he gets a complete look of her face. And the scars. 

He had seen the scars before, at least in part, since it’s not like she goes out of her way to hide them. Not that she can hide them, seeing as the marks from a bad case of road rash cover at least a quarter of her face down to her chin. What he hadn’t seen was the gnarled knot of scar tissue on her temple. From a dent there, it extended almost all the way to the eye and it disappeared the other way back under her hair, where it grew white in patches… Oh. Oh.  

He had known, of course, that she had been badly hurt during the Calamity. It was only the bare bones of her background but it was deemed important enough that Minfilia had filled some blanks, both for her friend’s benefit and his own as somebody who would be in constant contact with the warrior. He knew that she ached frequently thanks to old injuries and that the consequences of it still dogged her steps and probably always would.

Somehow it had never occurred to him that badly hurt may have actually been critically. That if fate had been a little crueler (or maybe kinder, he secretly wondered) he would’ve never met her. The thought makes his heart ache.  

“Coordination. Dexterity,” she looks at the hat held loosely in his hands and smiles, wry and bittersweet. “Goal.”

Alphinaud takes a moment to parse her explanation, something he’s proud to say he’s gotten better at of late. “Physical therapy with an immediate goal that netted concrete results and… a sense of accomplishment?”

Also an ability that produced material goods that could be sold and didn’t require literacy to accomplish, in case the brain injury didn’t heal enough, he didn’t say, but the thought was there now, digging into his brain like a grain of sand in his boots. 

X'lial hums. Her gaze is kind and he feels warm, the way he had when Lord Haurchefant had shared his hot chocolate when they arrived, bereft. “Hope,” she adds softly.  

His eyes return to the gloves and hat. He puts them on, even if it’s a bit too hot inside for them. 

An ability obtained in the aftermath of tragedy and the deepest most profound pain. Turned into… a gift, for a friend, because she wanted to and is alive to do it. 

“Thank you, my friend.”

Barrett has written and spoken publicly about being a devout Catholic lawyer, even saying that during her confirmation hearing that she would not enter an order of execution if she were a federal trial judge because it would conflict with Catholic Church teaching. In 2006, she gave a commencement speech at Notre Dame law school in which she told the grads, “Always keep in mind that your legal career is but a means to an end, and…that end is building the kingdom of God.” But Barrett has not publicly addressed her involvement with People of Praise.

Former members have described it as oppressive to women, and one woman has suggested that it creates a hospitable environment for controlling and abusive men. Coral Anika Theill, who wrote a memoir called BONSHEA: Making Light of the Dark, discusses her time with People of Praise and her sense that it had a role in facilitating the domestic violence she says she suffered. Her story highlights another feature of the community: Once in, it’s tough to exit. “When I left the community in 1984,” she writes, “I was threatened and told that they would put me in a mental institution if I did not submit to the ‘authorities God had placed over me.’”

According to Reimers, [one of the original founders] People of Praise teaching also provided some pretty sexist counseling for its male leaders on how to deal with women. “According to a teaching that has been circulating among the community heads, women are by nature manipulative,” he recounts. “This is one of the effects of Original Sin on them. The wise husband will factor this into his relationship with his wife, recognizing that much of what she does is insincere. To deal with this, the husband should distrust her motives and instead draw closer to his head and the men in his men’s group.”

Women, he notes, were discouraged from having independent ideas. “At a women’s retreat one handmaid taught (with the approval of the coordinators) that one manifestation of the sin of pride is the failure to submit one’s thoughts and opinions to the heads of the community for correction,” Reimers writes.

...Eric Stone, a student at the University of Minnesota, wrote an article in a campus publication about his time in the campus chapter. Like Reimers, he reported that the organization took a dim view of LGBT people and women.

“After some time in the POP,” he writes. “I started to realize that the revolution of Jesus Christ that was prophesied by the group was actually a revolution of oppression and control. The POP is comprised almost entirely of white upper-middle class Americans. Of the hundreds of members I met during my time with the POP, I met only one that was Black. I later found out that he was merely a guest at one of the community meetings and not affiliated with the POP. Furthermore, no active homosexuals are allowed, and if they ‘come out’ they are encouraged to undergo conversion therapy or are forced to leave.”

**emphasis mine. This is not the entire article

Might I request Crowley and Aziraphale going to pride?? Maybe unofficially adopting the kids who've been kicked out and who's family's aren't accepting?? Also, I love your writing; it's truly amazing!

author’s note: you absolutely may request that! what a lovely idea. super touching, I can see them doing that 100%. and thank you so much! this whole ask just had me smiling the whole way through. thanks for this! hope you like it :)

-”at least it’s stopped raining,” Crowley says as he stops the car, taking a moment before opening the car door and slipping out.

-he’s decided to switch up his colours, at least for today. instead of his usual black shirt, black pants, black glasses, he’s got on a rainbow shirt that matches his glistening rainbow studs. honestly, when Aziraphale first saw him, he almost didn’t recognise him.

-there’s a little pin on his shirt, almost indistinguishable from the brightly coloured top, that’s almost like a little rainbow itself. the colours, from top to bottom, go: pink, white, purple, black, blue. gender fluid, Aziraphale remembers and remarks proudly as he too steps out of the Bentley.

-he himself has opted for a more subtle approach. given that he’s usually in white or beige, he’s decided to add just a few little touches to his clean aesthetic: a pretty, pristine pin, decorated with every colour of the rainbow. his bowtie matches, too, and he’s rather proud of the rainbow socks he found somewhere or other.

-”yes, well,” Aziraphale agrees, shutting the door and following Crowley as he makes his way through the crowds, “at least it’ll make for nice weather, won’t it?”

-Crowley mumbles in agreement, but then stops talking. it’s not an awkward silence, but rather a mutually solicited one. it’s ‘we’re too far away to talk right now, but I’m glad you’re here’. it even makes the giddy angel smile a little.

-he’s about to call after Crowley when he suddenly falls back in the crowd, but, as though he has a sixth sense for where Aziraphale is, the demon is quick to stop and reach out for him. he catches his hand and they continue onwards.

-they stop a short while later, where there seems to be the perfect amount of space for the two of them: what a miracle! Aziraphale remarks just this, and Crowley shoots him a knowing look over his glasses, but smiles all the same.

-they watch and listen as they hear the parade grow closer, and when Aziraphale catches sight of two old men interlocking fingers, he squeezes Crowley’s hand reassuringly. he’s sure he doesn’t need to say it.

-the music, on any other day, would be far too loud and intrusive, but today it’s perfect. in fact, just about everything is perfect, because when he looks at Crowley there isn’t a single time the demon isn’t smiling at him.

-”quite a lovely arrangement, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asks Crowley, who only signals that he can’t hear, so he repeats himself. then, Crowley nods.

-”yes, yeah,” he nods alongside his words, “never been to one of these, it’s better than I thought.”

-this makes Aziraphale beam brightly over at the demon, because he just simply adores every ounce of his being. does he know that yet? perhaps Aziraphale will have to remind him of that fact for the rest of eternity, and the angel finds no issue with that.

-”woah, love the outfits, guys!”

-they turn away from the parade which is now leaving them and simultaneously catch sight of three people: two young men and a young woman. they’re all dressed similarly, with colourful tights and paint on their face, makeup expertly applied, but with varying colours for each person.

-”oh, thank you!” Aziraphale responds, though he can’t quite tell if he’s whispering, shouting, or somewhere inbetween because he can’t hear a thing over his ringing ears, “you too!”

-”these old things?” one of the men teases, and the other man hits him.

-”hey, I was the one that spent all night making them!” he scolds playfully, then shakes his head and looks at Aziraphale and Crowley, “some people, hey?”

-”I hear you,” Crowley says, then eagerly continues the conversation, which is unlike himself. “how’s your day been so far?”

-”well, we got up at seven to get the train here,” the woman spoke up, then checked her watch which was also impressively coordinated with her rainbow attire, “so, we’ve had a good two hours to just wander about the stalls and such.”

-”yeah, there’s this really great one, it’s doing couples drawings for, like, three quid,” one of the men said.

-”mad deals today, boys!” the other man said, earning a light chuckle from his friends, “and if that’s not what you’re looking for, there’s tons of places to meet new people. I heard there’s this sort of group therapy thing, where people talk about their experiences with coming out. good and bad experiences.”

-”oh,” Aziraphale’s face fell just slightly, “bad experiences?”

-”yeah, you know, the people whose parents weren’t the most accepting and that,” the woman said, then went on, “we’d go with you, but we’re just on our way to look for Rose and Rosie. you can come, if you want, but some of the stalls close pretty early, so if you’d rather-”

-”alright, Amber,” one of the men laughed, sensing she was probably about to explode or implode, one of the two, and thought it best to cut her off before those things happened, “we’d better let you two go, but we hope you have a fabulous day!”

-”and you three, too!” Aziraphale called to them as they began to make their way through the crowd, disappearing into a sea of rainbow, filling a rather beautiful portrait. “well, I think we’d better go and find those who’ve had bad experiences.”

-his suggestion was well received by Crowley, who began nodding before he’d even finished speaking. “yes, I think we better had. always good to educate yourself, and lend an ear whenever you can, isn’t it?”

-”it is indeed,” Aziraphale’s smile lit up just as the dark clouds in the sky cracked, letting in bright sunshine and enabling a vibrant, distinct rainbow to be seen, spreading right over the whole parade and even further - as far as the eye can see and beyond.

-and so, a demon and an angel walked, beaming, hand-in-hand and desperate to find this so called ‘group therapy’ they’d heard of. and, though Aziraphale promised they wouldn’t be adopting anybody today, he wasn’t sure he could keep that promise.

-it couldn’t hurt to add a few more to their family, right?

Maryanne.

You’re in my prayers every morning, she tells me on the sidewalk, casually slipping my 65 pound pitbull, Robin, a treat from her fanny pack. She tells me this every time we cross paths, which, if I am lucky, is a weekly occurrence. Maryanne should really have an ‘outfit of the day’ column in the New York Times. She is easily spotted a block away, not only by my dog’s nose, but in her perfectly coordinated clothing choices; bright red rain boots, wide-brimmed red hat, cherry earrings, and the color red lipstick that reminds me of my grandmother, who resembled Marilyn Monroe, smelled like old perfume, and never left the house without it.

Sometimes I wish I could shrink Maryanne to barbie-doll size and carry her around in my pocket. Maryanne never shames Robin for her plump figure. Her very spirit elicits joy- on evening walks in the neighborhood, when my mind jumps fifty years into the future, I think, when I grow older, I’d like to be like Maryanne.

Tell me about your outfits, I say one day, on the corner of Pinehurst and 184th. She recounts her days as a nurse in World War II, how although she loved her work, she was required to wear white every day. Now, I can wear whatever I want! She looks up at me with watery blue eyes lined in brown pencil, tiny, delicate hands roped in purple vein and beautiful. I have the overwhelming desire to scoop her into a hug.

Maryanne is a widow. She saves animals around the neighborhood and always carries treats in her purse. We commiserate about the state of the world, how humans don’t deserve dogs, and sometimes, my dating life. I often imagine her as the girl she used to be, fixed up in nursing whites, young and in love. And yet, how grateful I am to experience her in this phase of her life, just barely five feet tall, aged only by a number but towering in presence and charm.

I would like to think the universe created Maryanne as a reminder of the magic that exists here on earth. There is something about her aura- otherworldly, fairy-esque, that makes my breath catch in my throat each time I see her. As if the trees she passes suddenly begin to sway. And the light the sky emits at once becomes softer.

24 Hour Deli.

I don’t care about cohesion. Aesthetic is a non-issue. I want my salads big and overflowing, a picasso of flavor, texture, and crunch. Some (most) days I request a side of blue cheese dressing to use as dip for the potato chips I will inevitably buy no matter how many times I tell myself you don’t need them. I leave the store, plastic bag in hand, excitement stirring at the enjoyment to come- quiet room, a cornucopia of television options, peace to consume my masterpiece as if I am animal who has been deprived of food for months.

The 24 Hour Deli— I don’t know why I call it that- it’s actually called the Gourmet Deli, is approximately a one-minute walk from my apartment. Its marquee, bright, blocky and red, thrives with activity at all hours of the day. The 24 Hour Deli recently got a makeover. It now has more than five fancy gelato flavors and the miniature containers of cabot sour cream I like to destroy in one sitting. On the outside of the door, there is a clear no pets allowed sign. Yet magically, each time I walk into the deli with Robin, who suffers from separation anxiety, the cashier says nothing. Robin is no more than a sweet-demeanored curvy burrito, but being a pitbull, people tend to act strange at the sight of her.

The staff at the deli understand us. They let Robin sniff the endless line of Little Debbie snack cakes, and even sometimes offer their hand for a lick. Robin is overjoyed anytime she is allowed to enter an establishment, and this small gesture does not go unnoticed. The man who makes my salads sees me. He doesn’t laugh when he tosses in the eighteenth vegetable choice, rather tilts his head to one side and softly, almost lovingly, asks what else miss? I am always in awe watching him mix the ingredients together and making the whole ordeal fit perfectly under the flat plastic lid.

The 24 Hour Deli, like most local New York City bodegas, is more than just a deli. It is a meeting spot for conversation, gossip and respite from the street. It contains everything from beef jerky to pregnancy tests, the latter which I have sheepishly purchased among familiar faces that gave me kind smiles and a paper bag to carry it out in. It is run by a family whose hospitality has held me for the seven years I’ve lived in this gem of a neighborhood, quirky but inviting, not without its rough history and continued adoration of pungent marijuana and backwoods blunt wrappers, the latter which I have had my fair share of romantic neighborhood partners purchase before heading to my room on balmy summer evenings, knowing they’d be promised candlelight and a soft body.

Perhaps I will go to the deli soon to buy fresh flowers for my bathroom. They are not the best quality, but I like the way they look perched in my windowsill, trying mightily to stay alive.

The ladies at the Nail salon.

I have a paper card in my wallet that keeps track of the number of times I get my nails done. It is a rewards card, promising half off after I have completed six sessions. Over the last seven years, I am probably on my tenth card. The ladies at Diamond Nails know me by name. They compliment my hair, smile when they see me walking Robin, and massage my shoulders generously. They are motherly and kind, always assuring me of my nail polish color choice and warmly welcoming me into their establishment for however long I choose to stay.

I often get my nails done on days I feel sad. The budding of a new relationship gone awry, boredom at the state of things, the staggering injustice of healthcare in this country. Maybe I will get a manicure! Suddenly I am walking out the door, a quick left, the smell of acetone.

The ladies are drinking coffee. I smell takeout in the back room. I grab a handful of People magazines, propping myself in the oversized cushy chair and its complementary foot basin that will transform my toes into appealing seashells. Two women walk in- one is disabled and blind; her aid walks beside her. I take in this odd pair and am immediately brought back to my childhood, accompanying my dad to the house for the deaf he briefly worked at. My memories are mini movie reels- Sheri, a redhead, walking on the treadmill, calling my father Toli instead of Tony, over and over. My six-year old eyes, wide and observant, taught not to judge but understand. The blind woman chooses hot pink for her nails. The ladies tell her it is a lovely choice.

One day, while waiting for my nails to dry, my scalp tingles as hands weave in and out of my hair loops. I think perhaps I am receiving an extended shoulder massage, and close my eyes. The fingers move swiftly, repeating patterns and directions. I realize my hair is being braided, unsure as to why or if I should interject. I decide to let it happen. When she is finished, she proudly holds up a mirror so I can see the back. Beautiful! I reply. I laugh on my way out the door- amused that I came in for a manicure and left with a french braid. One month later, it happens again. I accept that it’s a package deal, and look forward to the next time.

I don’t know the lives of the ladies beyond the four walls of the salon, but I would like to imagine that they are filled with loving families, and warm homes that nurture them after a long day’s work. Their work is so giving, and far underappreciated. Having one’s nails done, similarly to getting a haircut or sitting at a bar nursing a cocktail, is never just about the monetary exchange. It is therapy. And the ladies, with their strong hands and tender demeanors, are my therapists.

Do yourself a favor and go to Diamond Nails. Make sure to tip generously.

An Ode to Morning Coffee.

If I collected all of the money I spend each day on neighborhood coffee, I’d have a jar amassing thousands of dollars by now. This is both depressing and impressive; on one hand, I’ve procured an awfully expensive habit. On the other, I honor my commitment to ritual. It all began when I adopted Robin. Robin wakes up each morning around eight am. It takes me approximately thirty minutes to make the bed, shower, get dressed, throw together some hair and makeup, and toss my keys in the mini purse I carry, along with plenty of poop bags and of course, coffee money.

Hudson Heights is lucky to have a rich coffee culture. There are multiple cups of coffee on each street corner, from the rudimentary but delicious cafe Bustelo at the bodega (low on ambiance, strong on flavor) to the cozy hole-in-the-wall, beloved Cafe Bunni. Nestled on the corner of 187 and Pinehurst, Bunni is a locally owned Ethiopian dream, serving everything from feta scones to frothy oat milk lattes. Tactically, it is the place I choose most often, mostly because Robin can rest her loins on the bench outside while watching my every move once I am in line to order.

Aesthetically pleasing bags of coffee beans line the cafe walls. Baked goods are displayed at the register, flirting with their puffed edges and swollen buttery insides. A long, communal wooden table is the main source of seating in this intimate space, as well as a window-seat bench. Robin, my oversized croissant, is perfectly visible on the other side of the glass. The whites of her eyes loom above seated coffee drinkers.

Cafe Bunni is approximately two hundred steps from the apartment of the first guy I dated when I moved to this neighborhood. He lives with his mother and drives an obnoxiously yellow pick-up truck. He asked me out while I was carrying laundry home. I should have known better. I was twenty-five and easily wooed by street flattery. He was twenty-one and desperate for attention. Bunni is a wonderful place to duck into when you spot ex boyfriends you’d rather not interact with. It is large enough to blend you into other bodies, and small enough that the whole event is not a big to-do. On many a summer morning, my eyes still waking to the day’s light, I have sought out anonymity in a paper coffee cup.

Perhaps my favorite fixture of Bunni is the way it inhabits the neighborhood. Between these walls, customers feel the understated, off-beat energy of the Hudson Heights residents. It is a tiny artist’s colony smack in the middle of a spa and a chinese restaurant. A place for those of us with less traditional jobs to post up, writing our dreams down in journals, people watching to feel less alone. We can sit there for hours, seen and supported by the comings and goings of both the patrons who fill the space and the baristas who are its undercurrent.

It’s difficult for me to pass Bunni without purchasing something. Sometimes I buy iced coffee just to have a cup in my hand while walking down the sidewalk. Other days, I never make it in, choosing to sit on the bench outside while watching the bustle of foot traffic go by. I once met a lady there who collects and sells crystals. She seemed a bit lonely, and happy to talk to anyone who’d listen. I complimented her necklace. We shared stories of moving to this neighborhood, coffees in hand, until Robin licked my ankle, alerting me it was time to go home.

Fort Tryon Park.

Imagine a maze. Giant and sprawling with lush greenery, gothic stone arches and secret roundabouts. Large enough to get lost in, small enough to find your way out.

Things I have done in Fort Tryon Park:

Cry. Clean up poop. Sing. Pick grass from the lawn while staring at the Hudson River. Smell flowers. Unintentionally photobomb a photoshoot. Meditate. Light sage. Sunbathe. Witness a quinceanera. Smoke weed. Talk to strangers. Watch a man masturbate behind a tree. Breathe deeply. Drink coffee. Pet dogs. Think about my life. Sit. Wait. Walk.

When I describe Fort Tryon Park to, say, a downtown person, I feel suddenly blessed, as though I am the keeper of a privileged secret that only a part of this city knows. Fort Tryon doesn’t belong to me, but it feels like it does. It is where my neighborhood ends, and Narnia begins.

On a good day, the park is about a fifteen minute walk North from my apartment. Each time we visit, I coerce my dog into posing for pictures. In the Fall, our earth-toned scarves blend in with the foliage; blankets of copper leaves illuminate a walking path, boots deliciously crunching with each step. In the summer, walks last up to two hours, trudging slowly from humidity and necessary water breaks. The park is both home, and home away from home. It receives me however I choose to show up. Nothing makes me feel more like a local than giving a visitor directions to the park, or its love child, the Cloisters. A simple head nod or wave in the right direction sends them on their way. I have paid forward Hudson Height’s most prized possession. My good deed for the day is done.

Years back, during one of my first visits to the park, I met a beautiful young woman roaming the grass with her giant snow angel, Zoe, and miniature tan taco, Zeta. Zaza, the owner of the eccentric dog duo and I became fast friends. We continued to meet for iced coffee and park walks. We watched my dog kill a gopher, and cried with hands held firmly as we heard it take its last breath. Meeting this Z trio changed my life; in the coming years, I would no longer feel like a mere resident of the neighborhood, but a fixture, with beautiful, lifelong friendships and last minute dinner dates to Refried Beans for oversized burritos and chips and salsa.

I am convinced the juju that permeates Fort Tryon is emboldened by the people who inhabit it each day. Much like the park itself, we span an array of colors and history, stories that give us character and scars to prove that although our lives haven’t been easy, we show up each day to smell fresh air and tilt our heads back to the sun. Thank you, Fort Tryon, for being my heartbeat at the tip of Manhattan.

The Lookout on Chittenden.

You know in the movies, when the grieving family member goes into the hospital chapel to pray by themselves? The lookout on Chittenden Avenue is Hudson Heights’ very own outdoor church, where on any given day, individuals can be spotted looking out the river’s horizon, asking for guidance from whatever higher power they believe in.

At least that is what I do. Usually at sunset, and most always, with Robin. Picking her up requires a deep squat and a tight grip around the underbelly. However, once I have it, we perch like bobbing lily pads in the ocean, peering out at New Jersey, waiting for a gust of wind or the smell of someone’s fried chicken to waft toward us.

The lookout is the kind of friend who doesn’t require every day interaction, but will always show up when you need them. Tucked away beneath a small hill, its presence is found rather than known, adding to its charm. Sometimes I imagine the narrative of the people who perch there alongside me- who is breaking up with who, who misses their mother, who also talks to the sky. Do they seek refuge here the way I do? At times not knowing what is being sought out but pulled to arrive anyway?

Or the residential voyeurs of the block, who put up fliers warning against drugs and littering, Chittenden’s silent army. My heart goes out to them. They know the real estate they live upon is neighborhood currency; they are only trying to preserve it.

I recall a visit to the lookout after a particularly painful heartbreak. The setting sun was so beautiful, it hurt. I couldn’t fathom how the world continued on as mine closed in on me. I knew in that moment that I would be ok, as I have always known, deep in my bones, that my small world spins within something much greater than me. It’s the staggering irony of life, that beauty can be found anywhere, even in the midst of agonizing pain. Nature has always known better than us. Embrace change, she whispers, and you will experience awe each day. It’s hard to walk yourself home with a broken heart. But then the sun sets. The skyline sparkles beneath a black sky. I smell the changing of seasons as the breeze hits the trees, releasing a single leaf on the ground beneath me.

Charles.

Charles has short white hair, olive skin, and piercing blue eyes. He is long-limbed and svelte, appearing almost fragile. Charles wears neutral colors and has long, elegant hands. He likes to eat dinner solo at the neighborhood restaurants, and always says hello to my dog.

I wonder often about Charles’s backstory. I have never asked, though I am confident if I did, he would share freely. There is a sadness in his demeanor that makes me want to reach my hands inside his chest and untwist the hurt. It is always the sad people who are kind, I’ve noticed. I have no idea if Charles is sad or not. Maybe melancholy is a better word. Or maybe it’s the way the deep lines around his eyes make him look like an etched painting, and the tiny blue half moons beneath them reflect longing, or wisdom.

I must have passed Charles at least ten times on the street before asking him his name. Now, I can’t stop using it. Hi Charles, I smile, walking down the giant stairs on 181st. He is on a bench with coffee, reading a newspaper. How’s it going, Charles? At 181 Cabrini, a spread of charcuterie and cheeses half eaten at his table. Robin sits down on his large feet. He pats her head. Oh, hi Charles! At the park, outside the laundromat, on my way to work.

I wonder how long he has lived here, what he does all day, if he has some large sum of money he lives on that pays for all his dinners out. I wonder if he is happy dining alone, savors it ritualistically, as I do my morning cup of coffee or the heady aroma of fresh cut flowers. Or if he longs for a partner, relying on the immersion of himself in the neighborhood as a way to feel more connected and less alone.

Of course, I could ask him. I think he would probably be flattered to know I’m thinking this much about the intricacies of his life. And yet. The mystique of not knowing somehow compels me. I have always imagined the inner lives of strangers; and though I am a truth seeker in nearly all aspects of my life, I am not sure I need to know the answers to the stories my brain creates. It’s like...foreplay. Or the titillating anticipation of an event nearly being better than the event itself. The hot sting of desire felt on the lips before the kiss. Must we spill over all our secrets? Or is the pleasure of them contained in the withholding?

The last time I saw Charles, he was sitting alongside a homeless man with pock-marked skin and gentle eyes. Another familiar face. They appeared to be friends. I smiled at the man, and said hello to Charles. Perhaps I will work up the courage someday to ask what brought him to this city. For now, I am grateful he is here, embedded into the scenery I call home.

Bennett Park.

Fun Fact- you’re standing on the highest natural point of elevation in New York City, I tell my soon-to-be boyfriend at the time. He is spending the weekend with me. It is our first time meeting each other in person. Ha.

I have probably spent more time in Bennett Park than any other place in Hudson Heights. When I first moved to the area, it was an all day stomping ground for the boys who perched on stoops and asked if I was from the heights. I’d walk Robin at midnight, letting her run laps in the grass while they rolled fresh blunts and skateboarded badly. I didn’t often take part, but I loved the camaraderie of these gatherings, how the park always felt like it belonged to someone, and in turn, that I belonged to it.

Bennett Park turns into a carnival on weekends; kids appear from every direction, dogs take refuge under shaded trees, the ice cream truck’s melody echoes in our brains- da da da da da da dum dum dum DUM dum dum. Orthodox Jewish women sit in clusters on the grass, dressed in long skirts and soft hats. I wonder if they know I am one of them, that despite my tattoos and nontraditional dress, I, too, can chant Hebrew prayers in my sleep, and recognize Saturday as their Sabbath. That I see a part of them in a part of me, though I will always wonder if they are happy, or have dreams bigger than motherhood, or spend moments in solitude wondering of a different life. The air smells of weed and cut grass. Children squeal on the swings. Someone plays hip hop out of a loud speaker while a parent bandaids a scraped knee. We coexist in our separate corners, together.

That boyfriend never visited my neighborhood again, though he did love the park and my attempt at impressing him with trivia. We made out on the grass under a moonlit sky, the boys of years past watching in the background, their silhouettes only vaguely familiar now. I was in love with the idea of him more than the individual I never truly had the chance to get to know, except through distance, and time zones, and continents. The agony of physical separate-ness gnawed at me; I fell asleep for an entire year existing on memories of a savored few nights together and future projections of what our life could be.

And so Bennett Park became my steadfast companion to get through each day. Every morning, with a cup of coffee and Robin at my feet, I walked aimlessly around its perimeter, noticing what was familiar- Bench. Tree. Water fountain. Rock. Lending Library. The grass where Robin likes to roll.

Ritualistic habits, I have learned, are a form of meditation. You can mend a broken heart by entering the same place each day while watching your perception of it slowly change. One day, almost magically, the flowers appear more potent, the sun, brighter, and your breath, which has been lodged somewhere between grief and hope, escapes into a singular, joyous exhale.

THANK YOU MISTER OR MISSIS VIRUS...Talking with White Eagle

It’s called Butterfly paint. You draw it with your cursor and then it starts moving around. A really cool and “useless” web aplication- just for your own amusement, still it needs some creativity and focus. Thank for this, dearest Martina! Try it out. :) Buy the way, talking about Martina...this is her with Carla. The Latin sisters by coincidence dressed up very similar, but you might already noticed that. I think I took this at one of my last visits to my dearest friends from the “Morustrasse department”  before I started taking seriously the quarantine.

About Solidarity, I reminded myself, after our coordinators also reminded us several times, it’s time to do act somehow in this way. So, I took my pencils and made this table below. The idea of doing this was shared with us previously.  Then I had an interesting inside story, I want to share with you: No one filled it out since two days, BUT the day after I put it out in the hallway of my house, an older woman I know from long time ago contacted me from Budapest- if I could help her buying some groceries. :) Can you sense? After talking to her and seeing my sign again, I had a moment of lucidity when I understood the humor of the universe- I announced my offering of help in Berlin, and I got a request, as a response to it from Budapest. I think it’s like karma- something you do to someone won’t come back from the same person, but it will from another one. In my case I think the same mechanism worked, trough different spaces. Eventually I managed to help her even from far, giving her the information about where she can get help in her environment. I was really amused by this process. 

Anyway. Just another fun fact. I bought one normal sized cabbage, and this is how many kind of food we prepared from it:  There is still left in the fridge and also in the freezer, we just couldn’t handle it...

So, if you want to buy a cabbage, think for a week or try to live in a bigger WG then me.

And the last but not least thing I want to share is my answer to this: 

https://325.nostate.net/2020/03/27/message-from-white-eagle-hopi-indigenous-on-3-16-2020-turtle-island/

We got it as homework to answer the question of this text: What world do you want to build for yourself? I will answer it even if I am a bit skeptic about the validity of the source- it doasn’t really matter, since the content is positive.

My answer to this is, that I would like to build a world that I am building already: one with strong attention to myselv and to the people around me, where I can live in my own rhythm, planing from one day to another with short term but important goals- which make me and the community I live in stronger and more beautiful, wiser and more fun...using my time to things I value most, like connecting with people who I love...trying to give, to pass something useful or joyful for people who need it and being creative about that, since my tools are different now from the ones I had one month ago...developing myself in order to be more positive- to strengh my immunity and to have power for solidarity...to make movement every day, to ask my body and discover what it needs and to give it...to grow plants, to cook, to meditate, to do mindfullnes and therapy more deeper then before, since I don’t need to rush anywhere...to look around me and to look inside of me, to enjoy and respect nature, to think, to read, to draw, to write, to do pictures, to dance, to learn, to share... and the list is progressively forming itself in the future. 

How are you REbuilding the world?

Xénia

Tragic Night

This is my first resus story that I never posted, not the best but its a start.  More to come, Enjoy!

Dave and Sara worked as paramedics and had been partners for 5 years.  One of their toughest calls came on a cold night in the middle of winter.  "Ambulance 16 to Highway 66 near exit 12, MVA with multiple passengers." They both jumped up and the ambulance was on it's way in the blink of an eye. As they got closer the highway was lit up with emergency lights.  They jumped out as Sara grabbed the medical bag. The Fire captain was coordinating the scene. "I have my men working on the trapped passengers in the car. One female was ejected, tend to her first."  They both rushed over and saw there wasn't still two females and one male no older than 25 stuck in the car.

Patient #1

Sara looked around and found the female who was ejected.  "Grab a neck brace and then we'll roll her over."  Dave placed the backboard on the ground and secured the neck brace around her neck.  "Ready 1 2 3 roll. Let's get her hooked up to the monitor."  Sara grabbed the shears from her pocket and cut the 21 year old's shirt right up the middle, then she cut down each leg to remove her pants. In a matter of seconds she was exposed to just her bra, panties, and Ugg boots.  She was covered in blood and was unconscious. Dave attached the electrodes to her chest and turned on the monitor.  "Her pulse is weak, not sure how long it will keep going. Let's get some fluids in her." They placed an IV in her left arm and started the fluids.  "She's going into v-fib, start compressions, I'll charge the AED."  Sara cut away the young woman's bra and placed her hands in between her breasts and pushed down hard and fast.  Dave attached the AED pads to her bare chest "charging to 200, stand clear, shocking." Her body reacted violently as the electricity coursed through her body. "No change resume CPR"  Sara injected adrenaline into the IV and then resumed CPR. With each compression her lean body rocked and her petite breasts jiggled side to side.  She was a very fit and tan young woman who appeared to be in perfect health before the accident.  "Charging to 300 all clear, shocking!" Her body again jumped off the board and came crashing back down causing her breasts to bounce.  "Asysotlye, I'm going to intubate."  He slid the long metal blade into her mouth and then stuck the tube down her throat. After attaching the ambu bag he listened to make sure it was delivering breaths. "I'll take over compressions" Dave said as he moved down next to her torso and began CPR.  Sara injected another round of meds and squeezed the bag twice after every 30 compressions.  After 3 minutes the monitor showed V-Fib again so they charged to 360.  "All clear, shocking" she came crashing down again as the monitor stayed in V-Fib.  "Charge again and 360, clear" her back arched and her chest came crashing down again.  They stared at the monitor hoping for a change.  The green line flattened and the alarm rang out showing Asysotlye. "How long has she been down?" Dave asked, "Eleven minutes" she replied.  "Let's call it, time of death 1:35 am".  They detached the equipment and covered her nude body with a sheet.  They paused for a second before being interrupted by a fireman calling out "We got one of them out, she's in really bad condition." They left the young woman under the sheet and jumped back into action hoping to save their next patient.

The Ambulance Ride:

As they approached the firemen already had the woman on a backboard and in a neck brace. "This is Susan, she's 22, has a broken leg protruding from her skin, possible head injury, she was in the back of the car, we're still getting the other two."  They took over and hooked her up to the EKG and put in an IV.  "Is Carol okay, please she flew out of the car, where's Carol?" pleaded Susan.  "Let's just focus on you" Dave said.  "Let's get her in the rig and we'll stabilize her in there."  They put the backboard on a gurney and rushed her into the back of the ambulance.  Sara proceeds to cut off Susan's jacket that says University Cheer on it. After cutting off all her clothing Susan lays in just her bra and panties, Sara takes off her shoes exposing her small feet.  "You're a cheerleader?" Asked Sara trying to calm Susan down.  "We all are, we were heading back to campus from a party when we ran into the barrier".  Susan was only 5 foot and had medium sized breasts and a six pack.  Sara put a bandage on her head where there was a large gash. "We got the male out, the driver is DOA, we'll load him up and you can transport them to the hospital." Sara nodded as they put the 22 year old 5 foot 10 male cheerleader on a backboard on the bench of the ambulance.  "Let's get these two out of here" Sara said as Dave got in the drivers seat and drove away.  5 minutes into the journey Susan's vitals started falling as she slipped unconscious.  "Her O2 stats are falling im going to intubate her." She slipped the scope into her mouth and put the tube down her throat and secured it with a blue holder that wrapped around her neck.  She began ventilating her in attempt to bring her vitals back up.  Her vitals began to stabilize as she put her on a respirator so she could tend to her other patient.  He was a 6 foot well built African American male.  She cut away his jacket and shirt, revealing his toned torso.  She cut off his pants leaving him in only boxers and a neck brace.  She began placing leads on his torso as the monitor whined to life.  Finally both patients were stable as she took a deep breath.  Before she knew it they arrived at the hospital and the doors flew open.  "22 year old female with laceration to her head and exposed leg injury, lost consciousness 5 minutes ago."  The doctors rushed her into the first trauma room and began tending to her.  "21 year old male, laceration to the abdominal and potential spinal injury." Both of the patients were now in the trauma rooms and receiving personalized attention/

Susan:

“Ready one, two, three lift.  Let’s get the rest of her clothing removed and hook her up to our monitors. Run a blood test, and get two units of O-neg in here.” The male doctor began to palpitate her abdominal, he then took his stethoscope and listened to her heart and lungs.  “Lets get a scan in here, eels like she has internal bleeding.”  They all backed away as X-rays and scans were taken of her entire body.  “I need an OR consult down here asap.” As he continued giving off orders to his team the monitors started sowing erratic heart rhythms that quickly led to a full arrest.  “Code Blue Trauma 1″ the PA system announced. “Someone start compressions and get some epinephrine in now.”  A nurse placed her hands in between her breasts and started pounding away. After every 30 compressions another nurse gave two ambu bag squeezes.  After two minutes passed they all reassessed one nurse placed her fingers right on her femoral artery as another checked her carotid artery.  “Still no pulse, resume compressions”  Another nurse took over compressions, each time her entire body shook, her head only stayed in place due to the neck brace.  “V-fib” a nurse placed two orange pads on her chest “Charge to 300, Clear!”  Her backed arched off the bed before crashing back down.  “No change, charge to 360.”  The defib unit charged as compressions continued.  “Clear” another shock coursed through her body as her back lifted off the bed once again.  Her entire body contracted before crashing back down and shaking due to the impact.  The monitors returned to asysotlye as a sharp alarm rang out.  “Resume compressions and push more med please.”  Susan had now been down for 14 minutes and shocked 8 times.  They checked for a pulse again as the lead doctor shined a light in her eyes. “Pupils fixed and dilated, shes been down for almost 15 minutes and has no pulses or signs of life.  Does anyone object to calling this code?”  The entire room was silent other than the alarm from the monitors.  The doctor looked down and her battered body “Time of death, 2:42 AM, thank you all for your help.”  He left the room as two nurses stayed back to clean her up.  They removed all of the wires and turned off the monitors.  Another nurse removed her socks and wrote out her toe tag before placing it on her small right foot.  Finally they placed a white sheet over her covering her body.

Franklin:

Franklin was the last patient from the crash and was found to have a complete spinal fracture.  He spent three days in the ICU and then went through a life of therapy without being able to walk again.  He advocated for driving safety as he told his story of losing three of his best friends and never being able to walk.

Taking Time Epilogue

Master List | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Request:

Could you do a Thor request where the reader is Tony’s sister and Thor and her always had feelings for each other but timing was never right and right after Infinity Wars, everyone goes to regroup and rest, she and Thor find comfort in each other since she doesn’t know where Tony is and he’s lost everyone he love (but her)?

Pairing: Thor X Reader (There’s some platonic Steve feels too.)

Summary: For years you and Thor have had a tumultuous relationship, to say the least. After the snap, you meet up with what’s left of The Avengers at the compound to not only figure out where the hell your brother, Tony, is but also to lick your wounds. Thor is among them and the two of you finally take the time for one another because if you’ve learned nothing from this nightmare it’s that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.

Warnings: Loss. 

A/N: My. God. Why. Can I write something and not be heart-wrenchingly invested in the reader character? No, apparently I cannot. I’ve enjoyed going on this journey thanks to my lovely anon requester and I appreciate you all going on it with me. Just going to go ahead and apologize for any tears shed because this def put me in my feels. 

Tags are open!

@disagreetoagree  @fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13  @dorkprincess  @badpvn @unalive-mee @breezy1415  

Every single person, even Rocket who had no dog in this fight, was ready to have something to do when you presented them with your plans that night. Things were getting chaotic everywhere. People needed whatever was left of The Avengers to step up.

Clint Barton had turned up the next day, having lost his whole family. You all welcomed him with open arms. While you all thought he’d opt to lay low he instead wanted to work.

Bruce was helping you pick through Tony’s research. Happy to finally be back in a lab.

Steve, Thor, and Rocket were ground ops tasked with going into the selected hubs to more accurately assess the situation. Steve even shaved his beard and donned his trademark red, white, and blue to gain people’s trust.

Natasha and Barton were on covert ops, in times of chaos there will always be people who will take advantage of that. They would sniff out the biggest threats and lay out a plan of action.

Rhodey was coordinating with the government. In the wake of The Event (as all the news outlets were calling it) the Accords were scrapped. The US and really any government was, for better or worse, ready to take any help they could get.

You would intervene in any team as necessary working under the Iron Man mantle. Your suit may be different in color and sleeker in design but there was no mistaking that look. Just like Cap’s patriotic get up it would garner trust.

Ten days after the event, when the teams had been dispatched for their first round of fieldwork F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimed in while you were in your office sorting through the nanotech research.

“Y/N, I have a pre-recorded message from Mr. Stark.”

Your breath catches.

“Would you like me to play it?”

Would you… “No. I… Fuck… I’ll view it in the lab.”

You run and burst through the doors of Tony’s private lab. In the days since you have been here you’d felt sick every time you thought of coming in this space. Now… Your heart is thundering in your ears your skin covered in cold sweat.

“Breathe,” you whisper. Trying to calm yourself. You place your palms against his main desk, whole body trembling. “Fuck,” you groan as you collapse into his chair.

No paper littered Tony’s space, he scoffed at analog whenever he could. But there were still traces of him left here. A coffee mug with a sip still in it. A book face down to mark his spot. A picture of him and Pepper. And… you cover your mouth to hold in a sob. You and Tony at your graduation from M.I.T. You were on his back, faces pressed cheek to cheek, smiles big and genuine. Rhodey had taken it. You hadn’t ever paid much attention to the photos he kept and this one genuinely surprised you.

Things were always touch and go between the two of you. Two orphans with too much fucking money and too many unresolved issues to function anything like a normal family. But… what was normal?

You’d slept in his bed for six months after your parents’ died because the terror of losing him would wake you up shrieking. He was there. 

When you were at boarding school in England you developed a raging heroin addiction. You’d overdosed behind a seedy pub. Your high society friends left you there rather than end up on the front page as being present when the Stark heiress died. Tony was by your side when you woke up, bleary eyed from lack of sleep and tears. He was there all through your detox… and the next… and the next… He never judged you, never held that against you. 

There were countless times you had failed one another, countless times you screamed both drunk and sober about your hatred of the other. Times when you wouldn’t talk for months… But still you loved each other as best you could.

The picture held tight to your chest you take a shaky breath. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., play it.”

There he is, sitting right where you are, looking morose.

He lets out a long sigh, “You know, Y/N… I’ve been making these things since after the attack on New York. I kinda thought,” he runs a hand absently through his hair making it stand up, “they’d get easier… they don’t. Especially the ones to you. I think,” he clears his throat, “I think it’s because more than anyone I hope you never have to see this. I, uh, have this program set up that if I don’t provide authorization every 10 days F.R.I.D.A.Y. will send this to you. I figure 10 days is a pretty solid indication that something is very wrong. So just in case… There’s just things…” He trails off and leans his elbows on his desk, cradling his head in his hands.

He looks back to the camera, his eyes glassy, voice shaking. “Things that,” he clears his throat again, “that you need to know… that I’ve never had the spine to really say to you before… Y/N, I could not be more proud of the woman you’ve become.” A tear slides down his cheek and he quickly brushes it aside, save for snark and anger neither of you were good with emotions. “God knows that’s no thanks to me. I have no clue how you turned into this light of a person but I do know I’m lucky you’re my little sister. I know things haven’t always been easy, I know I haven’t always made them easy. I’ve fucked up so many times… but still here you are. I guess here we are. Both trying to save the world in our own ways though I do think you’re doing a better job…” That crooked smile curls his lips. “And I know… I know for a fact mom and dad would be proud of you too…” He takes a second, breathing deep.

“You should know that anything good in me, any heroic bullshit I’ve ever done… It wasn’t to save the world or to be a hero. I just…” Tears slide out of his eyes, “I just wanted to be good enough for you, to make sure things were safe for you, first and foremost you… And I know that may be hard to believe since I… I know I’ve apologized but I will be doing so until the end for showing you that video… I,” his voice breaks, “I hate myself for that, Y/N, and for the shit before it… I’m so sorry. If you can tell Rogers… tell him I was wrong… Fuck.” He stands and paces for a minute.

“Anyway,” he breathes deep, “I just need you to know that I’m proud of you, that I love you, and that I’m sorry for all the times I failed you. If I’m gone… well I’m sorry for that too. I hope you have Thor, that big blond idiot loves you even though I’m sure neither of you have admitted it to each other. You should by the way, admit it.” He smirks, knowing. “You should also know that the Iron Man is yours now. Do what you want with it, use it, retire it, find someone you can trust with it, whatever. F.R.I.D.A.Y. has all the schematics you could need and I have no doubt you’ll just make it better.” He sighs. “I’m sure there’s a whole hell of a lot more I should say but this is all the emotion I can handle for the week. I love ya sis. You’re going to be ok, kid.” Then he’s gone.

You sit, unmoving, for what seems like a long time. Then something snaps. Every ounce of sadness, of rage, of fear, hits you. Not once since The Event have you allowed yourself the space to feel this. Holding on to the notion that Tony was somehow alive, that he was coming home. But now…

There aren’t tears just a rage filled roar as you knock everything off Tony’s desk with a swipe of your arms. The mug shatters, frames crack. The desk, now devoid of accoutrement is nothing but a target. With a flick of your wrist the armor encases your right hand and you blast a hole through the top of the desk. You take a step back and release another, and another, screaming all the while.

You don’t even hear Rhodey come in. “Y/N!!” He yells over your screams. “Hey!” Grabbing your arm.

“Get the fuck off me, Rhodes!” You look at him, wild, before stalking away and firing at the glass wall separating the lab from the test area. It shatters with a satisfying crash and suddenly Rhodey’s arms are wrapped around you, pinning your arms to your sides.

“I got one too, kid,” he says softly and your knees begin to buckle, “I know… I know.” His voice is thick with emotion. “I know it hurts.”

“Oh, god,” you croak and crumple to the floor. The armor retreats and you cover your face the tears flowing freely. “No, no, nononono,” you repeat over and over through your sobs. Rhodey stays behind you, arms wrapped tight around you until your sobs quieten.

He looks around at the destruction you wreaked, “Ya know, there are times I doubt you and Tony are related and then I’m always reminded that there is no doubt.”

Sniffling you pull away and sit on your knees across from him and take his hands. “Why do you put up with our shit, Rhodey?”

He laughs, tears in his eyes, “Because life without the Starks is too fucking boring.”

You shake your head, “You should work that out in therapy.” Both laughing you embrace. “Thank you, Rhodey, for everything.”

“It’s nothing, kid,” he wipes the tears from your face. “You’re family.”

Five weeks pass.

You’re all managing the best you can. Working on a four days on three days home system for the most part. The beginnings of Foundation outposts have been established in New York and Houston, providing medical care, food, and housing to thousands. You and Rhodey were working to figure out a way to ethically and legally seize homes and former offices that were empty to be used for rehoming people closer to the city centers. Things were… as good as they could be.

Every moment you’re able you and Thor find ways to be together. You both make it a point to carve out time every single day you’re apart to at least have ten minutes to talk, to remind one another that you love them. On days when you’re at the compound you sneak off any chance you can, stealing moments to kiss, fuck, and talk. It was as though you were both determined to make up for all the time you lost.

He tells you incredible stories about his childhood. Pranks Loki would play on him, how he’d somehow always fall for it. Battles won and lost. You’d tell him far less fantastical stories about the wild shit you and Tony would get into, the last minute trips to Singapore and Monaco, the debauchery and fuckery. He loved them even though they lacked giants and magic. Those are the best times.

It’s one of your three days with everyone back at the compound for debriefing and taking a breather. You’re all around the kitchen eating whatever is on hand for lunch chatting when F.R.I.D.A.Y. pipes up.

“An unknown spacecraft has just entered the atmosphere.”

“Fuck,” you all seem to groan in unison.

“Can you tell it’s trajectory?”

“I cannot be certain but it seems that it may be heading close by, I’ve tried to communicate but have gotten no response.”

Without another word you’re all bolting for the door grabbing any necessary gear as quickly as possible. You’re fully suited before you’re even outside, Thor close at your side.

“If they’re hostile let me take the first blow,” Thor growls. You nod.

Suddenly you see it clear the trees just to the west of the compound. Without a thought you’re off, Rhodey bringing up your left.

The craft lands with an earsplitting crash, digging a deep ravine into the earth.

“Still no response from inside the craft but I do detect two life forms,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. informs you.

The rest of the team has brought up the rear while Rhodey, Thor, and yourself remain on the front lines with Thor on the ground and the two of you hovering about 10 feet up.

You hear sounds rumble from inside. “Whoever the fuck you are I highly suggest you come out slowly and unarmed unless you want a hole through your chest.”

Clanking, voices, and a hatch finally bursts free, your weapons hum to life ready to fire any moment.

Hands raised, human hands. “I wouldn’t have given you the fucking thing if I thought you were going to shoot me with it.”

You lose your focus and crash to your knees with a thud helmet retracting and you stare at the haggard visage of your brother.

“Tony,” Rhodey says, shocked, landing with much more grace beside you.

“Stark,” you hear Steve whisper.

“Rogers, Rhodes,” he looks around and you know who his eyes are seeking out.

“She’s not here man…” Rhodey says looking down.

Tony sniffs hard, “I figured. Honestly, didn’t expect any of you to be here…”

You’ve been staring at him, brain unable to process fully what you’re seeing. He’s still a good distance away and suddenly you stand, your feet move of their own accord, suit retracting with each step.

When you’re in front of him you slap him, hard, across his face. “What the fuck Tony!” You scream. You punch him in the shoulder, “What were you thinking?!”

Vaguely you hear Rhodey say to someone, “No, let them do this.”

You push him hard with both hands, “Getting on a fucking hostile alien ship, not knowing where it’s going or what’s happening.” Your voice is starting to crack, you push him again, “with no back up, nothing!” You raise your hand ready to hit him again and he catches it, holding tight, dark eyes that match your own unwavering.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I’m… sorry,” he whispers.

The fight leaves you in a rush and you collapse into your stupid, reckless, heroic brother’s arms. You both hit the ground in a heap, sobbing into one another. Each of you saying sorry like it’s a mantra, like it will make up for everything that either of you has done to the other. Each of you knowing you are two of the luckiest people alive.

Your whole body is violently shaking, you can’t seem to stop. “Hey, hey,” Tony whispers rocking you back and forth. “It’s ok, we’re ok, kid.” You look up and Rhodey lays a hand on your shoulder.

“I told you, he’s a stubborn son of a bitch,” he says eyes glassy. The two of you rise and the men embrace. “Don’t fucking pull that shit again, Tony.” All Tony can do is nod.

No one else has moved so you all approach the shell-shocked team. Rocket is talking to a blue woman and you can’t even be phased at this point. You reach a hand out for Thor and he takes it, smile bright and eyes filled with tears.

Steve’s eyes are glued to the ground, tension radiating from him. “Rogers,” Tony croaks out, Steve looks up through his lashes not moving, “I’m sorry, man… I…” Steve cuts him off by pulling him into a bone crushing hug. You know they’ll have to work out their differences but you know that right now they’re just thankful to have their friend back.

“Y/N,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. pops up and you hear a distant rumble. “There seems to be another ship approaching.”

“You are fucking kidding me right?!” You groan, suit slithering up your arms.

“Oh,” Tony clears his throat. “Yeah. Point Break,” he looks at Thor, “picked you up some souvenirs on the way home.” A large ship lands, with far more grace than Tony’s heap had.

Thor looks at you confused, “How the hell should I know babe?”

A hatch hisses open and a dark-skinned woman saunters down. Thor’s face is shocked. “Valk-“

“Yeah, it’s me,” a crowd gathers behind her, “Your orders were to go to Midgard so,” she gestures behind her, “here we are.” It hits you that this ragtag group is what’s left of Asgard, of Thor’s people.

He rushes up to her picking her up hooting. Your jaw hangs open, tears streaming down your face. Thor’s laughter rings through the still afternoon air.

Tony wraps an arm around your shoulder and you lean into him. “Have you told him yet?” He’s smirking.

You cleat your throat, “Yeah… yeah we did finally get that out of the way.”

“Good.” He plants a kiss on top of your hair.

There’s still so much to be done. So far to go. But right now you all take the time to revel in a little happiness, savor this victory, no matter how small.

Sheridan (Svali) is an intern at CARE. As I stated I was at CARE a few years ago and met ‘Svali’. My experience at CARE was not good. In hindsight what occurred although painful and confusing at the time has ended up being something I am grateful for now.

Since Sheridan (Svali) is at CARE I thought I’d share with you what CARE is and a brief overview of them.  Then the information I’ve found out recently and why what happened in the past is now something that I think was a higher power intervening on my behalf to get me away from them.

CARE follows the Messianic Jewish faith.

CARE is set up as a ministry and their site says this: “Based on our many years of experience, we have determined that God is the true healer and the only one who can “set the captives free.” Although we recognize that clinical skills are helpful to bring into the prayer sessions, we want to emphasize that we take a spiritual approach in dealing with trauma-based disorders. Because we believe that God is the healer, a distinction needs to be made between professional counseling and what we provide as a prayer ministry. This prayer ministry service does not replace the need for continued professional therapy.”

Statement of Faith

The Manna Congregation believes the following:

The whole Bible is the only inspired, authoritative word of God.

There is only one means of Salvation that God has provided, and that is faith in His Mercy provided through the atoning blood of His Son Yeshua the Messiah – grace through Faith in Messiah.

You must be born again, of the Spirit of God, and receive new life. This requires from us repentance from sin, turning to God, and giving our hearts to Him, by an act of our will.

Having received salvation we have eternal life in God and we are free in Messiah. Free from the power of the sinful nature in our lives, free from the penalty of our sins committed, free to live in Holiness and obedience to God and empowered to do things His way.

We observe the commandments (Torah) of God, understanding that they lead us to Messiah and are fulfilled through our new life filled with the Ruach HaKodesh (Holy Spirit).

Unity is a necessary sign of the power of the Ruach HaKodesh’s work through the Body of Messiah (Psa.114).

We are called out to be a special people to God, to love Him and serve Him as the one true God. We are also free and empowered to love our neighbors and to serve one another.

The Congregational Leader is Cheryl Knight.

“Cheryl Knight, President of the Board and Staff Member

Cheryl coordinates the development of new project ideas in accordance to the needs of the target population. She has a Master’s degree in Messianic Studies and is Manna Congregational leader. Cheryl spends time with the community as a mentor, walking beside each in their healing process. She also presents at seminars and conferences. Cheryl wrote Surviving In Sanity, a book about the importance of spiritual warfare, and has co-authored two other books with Jo Getzinger on survivor topics. Cheryl began working in the field of trauma recovery work in 1990.”

Below are screenshots taken from Cheryl’s Facebook page.  In my opinion this is the true representation of CARE.

  Tell me how is this Godly? Where in the bible does Jesus say this? Why can’t we try and do both? What happened to being a compassionate, decent human?

One scripture from the bible says this: For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in. (Mat: 25:35)  I hope Cheryl never tells the story of the “Good Samaritan”.

I don’t care what someone’s political affiliations are. I do care if they support someone like Trump.  Twenty-two women have made accusations of sexual misconduct against Trump.  

Trump defends men accused of sexually inappropriate actions, Roger Ailes, Brett Kavanaugh  , Rob Porter, Roy Moore,  and Bill O’Reilly.  LINK

How can the leader of an organization that says it believes the survivors of abuse support someone who attacks the victims of abuse when they speak out and defend the abuser? 

“I’ve got to use some Tic Tacs, just in case I start kissing her,” Trump says in the recording. “You know I’m automatically attracted to beautiful—I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the pussy.” The things Trump says about women. LINK

Trump has made many racist statements such as: AUG. 15, 2017

Days after a woman was killed and dozens injured in Charlottesville, Va., after torch-bearing Ku Klux Klansmen and other white supremacists waving Confederate flags and chanting “Jews will not replace us” confronted counter-protesters over the removal of a Robert E. Lee statue

“I think there is blame on both sides.…You also had people that were very fine people on both sides.…Not all of those people were neo-Nazis, believe me. Not all of those people were white supremacists by any stretch.”

Trump’s racist comments. LINK

I won’t include the quotes Trump says about GLBTQ community, Muslims, Hati, Jews and other minorities.

Trump was affiliated with Steve Bannon who was the former chief strategist in the Trump administration. Steve Bannon who was executive chairman of Breitbart News which is Alt-right, far right, (White Supremacist).

Cheryl Knight posted this:

Here’s a LINK to the article. Again, Cheryl Knight taking the side of someone accused of sexual assault.  

The Daily Wire is listed as a ‘far right’ 

I’ll say it again: How can the leader of an organization that says it believes the survivors of abuse support someone who attacks the victims of abuse when they speak out and defend the abuser?

How can a leader of a religious organization support, promote, and agree with so much hatred for their fellow human? 

That brings me to Sheridan (Svali). CARE is the perfect place for her. Remember Sheridan talks about how racist the Illuminati is, CARE is a perfect religious cover for that racism.

Q: Overall, would you say the Illuminati are racist? I am asking this because their agenda seems to be very white supremist throughout history.

The Illuminati are racist, and have a very “Aryan” outlook. They believe strongly in the rule of the “pure” and “intelligent” by their definitions, and in their ceremonies, there will occasionally be minorities killed in ceremonies. They are trying to breed a “genetically superior” race to rule, with their children and descendants. They are also followers of Plato’s Republic, and believe that they will be the ones to usher in this “Utopian” rule with the NWO in their opinion. In their Utopia, the intelligentsia will rule, and the sheep like masses will follow their leaders (that is their view of the world; that the occult leaders are “enlightened’ and intelligent, while the average person is a “sheep” to be led by the nose). LINK 

If you are a survivor of extreme abuse these in my opinion are some reasons to not seek treatment at CARE.

About C.A.R.E Sheridan (Svali) is an intern at CARE. As I stated I was at CARE a few years ago and met ‘Svali’.

The New McCarthyism

Today is International Trans Day of Visibility, which is as good a day as any for me to write about a very serious issue trans people are facing, which really needs more mainstream attention. Trans people are being actively erased from public visibility, in a surprisingly literal sense, and we have been for quite some time.

Back in the 1940s-50s, there was this nasty little thing called the Hollywood blacklist. In theory it was an effort to deal with dangerous spies, but in practice it lead to a massive witch hunt, where anyone who anyone had a big enough problem with would be painted as an enemy of the state, and any denial of such was presented as “proof” because “that’s just what a communist would say!” This was part of a general trend now referred to as McCarthyism to just arbitrarily paint people as “dangerous” and deny them any sort of career or platform to defend themselves. And of course various forms of prejudice piggybacked along on this, with LGBT people in Hollywood in particular being quite paranoid for the decade.

Those lists were backed up with fear of inquisition from specially created government committees, but mainly enforced by studio executives and others holding the reins of power passing around lists of people not to work with, making it nearly impossible for anyone targeted to find employment. The modern blacklist though is much more efficient, preventing those targeted (mostly trans people and those willing to stick up for us) from finding employment or even holding conversations, in a more or less entirely automated process. To explain just how that works though, first we need to have a brief discussion about Twitter.

Twitter represents a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Stand-Up comics use it as a quick way to test new material. Corporations use it as one of many vectors for for making announcements and PR statements (along with very bizarre one on one interactions with people mentioning their products). A lot of people use it as their primary vector for socialization, sending messages to friends, posting personal announcements, party invites, and so on. Some people use it as a news source, particularly those who have a particular special interest, as informal networks passing around story links make it impressively easy to stay up to date on every development of a certain type. Anyone doing any sort of creative work uses it for all their networking. And of course, radicalized bigots use it as a means of coordinating attacks against targets of whatever minority status they have a particular interest in that day. We’ll come back to that point, but allow me a moment to elaborate on the networking.

Personally, I wear a lot of different hats. I’m a game designer. I’m an artist. I’m a writer, of both news and fiction. I’m a professional critic. And I’m an activist for a number of causes. All of these fields depend on networking. And all of these fields have somehow decided that that networking is going to take place almost, or entirely, on twitter. I was hugely reluctant, personally, to ever register a Twitter account, and spent a few very confused years watching my carefully curated network of e-mail lists, message boards, and gossipy industry friends dry up completely. Having properly established a foothold in twitter however, I have lightning fast access to the ability to find work. Within an hour of anyone having the idle thought to ask if anyone out there has experience writing about a topic I have an interest in, that request will have flowed through whatever network is relevant in a string of reposts, landing right in front of me, along with a few quick tools for me to work out if the person making this request is someone I’d actually want to work with and vice versa. Literally every cent I have earned, job I have interviewed for, and update about a cause I’m concerned with has come to me this way, and only this way, since registering a Twitter account. Without one, I’d be completely unable to work in any of these fields.

Unfortunately, as anyone who relies on Twitter for their profession and lacks the luxury of being a white cis man, Twitter has a rather pronounced nazi problem. That is to say, neo-nazi organizations have come to the realization that they will face zero repercussions for using the site as a vector to launch absolutely vicious or even criminal attacks on their targets. As Twitter has made it abundantly clear that no real measures will be taken to address this under the current management, the only real tool available to the userbase is a block feature which prevents direct mentions from a blocked user to display to the user imposing the block (although these messages will still display for everyone else), and preventing the blocked user from viewing their posts (without first signing out or opening a private window).

Enter blocktogether.org, a site where any Twitter user can share a list of everyone they’ve ever blocked with subscribers, refreshing with each new block. If you were to subscribe to my Block Together list for instance, you would instantly block the several thousand malicious trolls I’ve blocked over the years for sending me harassing messages, plua a handful of people I happened to take personal offense to, and you would automatically block the next batch of 100 trolls I weed out of my twitter replies without any further input or notification. The appeal as a stopgap for an essentially unmoderated website is clear, as should be the mental image of a clique of bratty high school children lording The List as an instrument of social power. Note also the handy links to automatically block all newly registered accounts, or those with low post counts.

Originally, typical usage of Block Together involves picking a particular favored celebrity whose list to subscribe to, filtering from your view anyone that celebrity has taken issue with. In 2014 however, in the face of a massive neo-nazi uprising on twitter, a woman named Randi Harper hit upon the idea of writing a script to scan through twitter’s database of users, identify anyone following the majority of a list of known neo-nazi leaders, compiling them into a list which an automated twitter account would then block, updating daily, for a theoretical constantly updated list of every neo-nazi account, which combined with Block Together would preemptively keep them all out. A number of other lists followed suit, using similar logic to target members of other violent reactionary groups.

For a brief window, when Twitter’s neo-nazi insurgency was in its infancy, and individual hate groups and botnet owners were using the site to coordinate, and totally indiscriminate in choosing new targets, these lists were largely considered to be a necessity to make the site usable for anyone working in certain fields, particularly reporters, civil rights activists, game designers, and anyone working in the entertainment industry. As a result, Harper became a minor celebrity, whose personal Block Together list was subscribed to by much of Hollywood, the press, and those in activist circles, as neo-nazis worked out how to easily circumvent the automated list.

Unfortunately, Harper is not a conscientious, responsible, career activist, but a random computer programmer with a short temper and some serious personal biases and bigotries. In particular, her personal list of blocks contains hundreds of trans people, and vocal supporters thereof. Anyone subscribing to her Block Together list, advertised as “almost entirely” nazis, inadvertently blocks a significant trans population. Anyone raising this subject to Harper is also immediately placed on the list, and animosity over the subject once caused her to personally write a post on the reddit board of the very neo-nazis her list was created to thwart, encouraging those sending death threats to her and her son over the manufactured scandal of the day to instead target “Someone that goes on long unstable diatribes, thinks I'm a terf [a term for members of a particular dangerous hate group targeting trans women], yells a lot about Jesse [Singal, another notorious figure in trans circles, with a history of both fetishizing trans women and writing propaganda pieces designed to erode trans people’s rights, and repopularize conversion therapy for trans children].“

This post lead to immediate attacks against every trans person with any notable Twitter presence, along with our extended families, ranging from death threats, to abusive calls to elderly relatives, to coordinated efforts spread possible addresses, e-mail accounts, and phone numbers far and wide to aid in SWAT attacks and similarly dangerous behavior. There was, of course, absolutely no public outcry or acknowledgement of this, as both victims and those inclined to speak on their behalf had already been added to Harper’s Block Together list, which was subscribed to by exactly the sort of media voices who make it a point to raise awareness of such incidents.

Here lies the most obvious danger of this new form of McCarthyism. If a particular Block Together list is widely adopted within a given circle of people, the maintainer of that list can abuse their power, adding the names of those they’d like to see disappear for the pettiest of reasons, those so added effectively vanish from that circle completely, unable to explain what happened. The effectiveness of this is further strengthened by the sheer pervasiveness of these lists, making it unclear exactly which “anti-nazi” list one may have been added to, the intensity of the taboo Twitter users place on objecting to being blocked (bearing in mind that even those of us doing so by hand typically have thousands of trolls whining about having been blocked by us, and the impossibility of distinguishing the name of a complete stranger from the dozen people shouting slurs at us last week), and the fact that a subscriber to a list will not automatically block anyone they manually follow. So, hypothetically, if you were to be added to Harper’s list, and conferred with friends in an attempt to determine why you were suddenly cut off from interacting with the entertainment industry at large, those friends subscribed to that list would be just as in the dark as you.

Harper is far from alone in abusing Block Together in this fashion, and it is alarmingly common for trans people to suffer the most. Long lists of innocent trans people get discreetly added into lists advertised as filtering out misogynists, racists, homophobes, and the just recently, even a list explicitly created to shut out anti-trans bigots had one of its administrators load in a staggering number of trans people in an act of pure frustration and malice.

Often, these lists will note that a certain percentage of those blocked will be false positives, phrased in a way that makes them sound like acceptable casualties of war. A handful of strangers you’d never likely interact with to begin with losing access to you seems like a small price to pay for shutting 100,000 bigots out of your life, after all, but this is completely inexcusable when looked at from the other side of the equation.

As mentioned earlier, for people in many careers, unfettered Twitter access is a basic requirement in order to be able to work at all. As a freelance game designer, the entire industry inadvertently blacklisting you prevents you from ever responding to an open call. A struggling actor can’t learn about potential roles. A reporter can’t pitch story ideas to editors. A freelance artist can’t circulate a portfolio. This sort of thing is particularly devastating to the trans community at large, because we face intense discrimination in face to face interactions. As an unusually large and hairy woman, people find my presence uncomfortable, and routinely immediately reject me immediately as I sit down for any sort of interview. A man who comes across as slight and feminine has similar problems, and non-binary people unnerve potential employers in ways they can’t even put into words. This forces us into creative fields, the gig economy, and freelance work in general, where again, a single petty person throwing our names into a list can completely block off entire career paths along with our means to object.

Additionally, Block Together lists don’t actually have any real impact on combating the sort of mass harassment they’re touted as a cure for. Practically none of those hundred thousand accounts a given list might claim to block are actually active. As there are no real limits to a single person setting up an absurd number of Twitter accounts, those inclined to use the site as a vector of abuse have thousands if not millions of spare, disposable accounts, set up years ago as “sleeper agents,” destined to be used in a one-off flyby attack, and then never used again, at least against the same target, and if they ever run out, registering new ones isn’t a particular barrier.

Even after establishing that the abuse of these blacklists is something to take seriously, dealing with them is a seriously daunting task. The first barrier of course is raising awareness. This very article is bound to have a hard time making inroads with those who need to be made aware of the issue because they’re cut off from so many of those affected. Even once one is aware though, unsubscribing from one of these lists does nothing to undo the damage to those added to it.

Consider for instance the somewhat high profile case of Wil Wheaton (Star Trek: The Next Generation, Stand by Me, The Big Bang Theory, Tabletop). Wheaton is a genuinely well-meaning celebrity, concerned with mass-abuse campaigns, and an avid supporter of Block Together, having circulated his own blocks for some time, and being one of the first to subscribe to Harper’s aforementioned list. Due to the nature of Block Together, subscribing to Harper’s list caused all of her personal petty blocks and odd grudge against trans people in general to propagate to Wheaton, and from there, anyone subscribing to his list, or a list belonging to one of his subscribers.

Having over three million followers and a very good reputation, Wheaton’s list being infected in this manner was absolutely devastating to those spitefully added by Harper, becoming an incredibly far reaching blacklist. Upon being made aware of this situation thanks to a friend sharing an earlier piece on this subject, Wheaton promptly unsubscribed from Harper’s list, and manually unblocked those he was directly made aware had been affected. Unfortunately, Block Together’s functionality has no real “undo” button. Every block Wheaton acquired from Harper remains after unsubscribing from her list, and remains for everyone unsubscribing from Wheaton’s.

The only way for those placed on the blacklist to regain a normal level of access to the site would be to compile a list of those affected by blacklists of this nature (this Twitter account incidentally explicitly follows the best such list its creator is aware of), and for every individual to have subscribed to, really, any Block Together list at any point, to personally run threw these false positives, by hand, unblocking each one. Again, it’s difficult enough to spread awareness of the situation to everyone who would need to take action to remedy it, and said necessary action is frankly a fairly involving task, which for any individual is going to feel like a lot of work for no real benefit, either for themselves, or for the random strangers whose lives they are impacting in a very abstract, single drop in a vast ocean sort of way.

The practical upshot of all of this is that any given person with the ability to market a Block Together list is capable of doing massive, life-ruining damage to anyone who relies on Twitter for their livelihood, instantaneously, at any time, with virtually no chance of it ever coming to light, and even less chance of that damage ever being undone. And this is routinely used by people whose positions make them seemingly the last sort to ever do so to completely destroy the livelihoods of trans people en masse, while also making it nearly impossible for us to even beg for support in the aftermath.

I have no real solution for this problem. The best I can do is plead that you never subscribe to a Block Together list, and raise awareness of this issue, possibly by linking out this article. A lot of people I know, myself included are facing homelessness thanks to the brutal efficiency of this discrimination tactic, and even those devastating results are rendered invisible.

FINALLY IM DONE WITH THIS OH MY GOD. My SAI crashed while I was finishing the painting one of the images and my stupid past-self hadn’t save literally since I had finished the lineart, which meant I had to start doing the colors all over again. Which sucked. A  L O T .

BUT, WITHOUT ANY OTHER INTERUPTIONS, I HERE PRESENT, FUTURE!VIRGIL IN MY SANDERS SIDES POKÉMON AU....

Nurse Virgil.

Yes, you guys aren’t seeing or reading wrong, I thought for what I wanted Virgil’s future to be in my AU, and somehow the idea of him becoming a nurse on a pokémon center came to me and I was like “????? it??? somehow fits his character in my AU??? And he would look nice af??? Heck yeah, let’s do this.” Honestly, I was thinking about how he does always try to look out for everyone and everything, and somehow the idea of him in my AU becoming a Nurse clicked and i loved it. So yeah I HAVE thought a little about how and when in his path he decided to follow the path of becoming a pokémon nurse and all, will explain better under keep reading like I always do. But one thing I knew I had to give him, was a new “nurse pokémon” like the ones Nurse Joy always have with her in every generation, and then without even thinking much, I went with Audino simply because it’s shiny is purple. Yes, that was the only reason, and is a valid af reson. 

His old pokémon obviously still are with him, and seems like we have a new addiction BESIDES Audino?? my, my how did that little fella joined the team, I wonder?? Perhaps the information is under the read more....~  and warning. It’s DEFINITELY a LOOOONG one. Told you all I imagined the story behind WHY Virgil took this path. :’D

BUT FIRST. TAGGING LIST! AGAIN, IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO BE ON THIS TAG LIST ANYMORE, PLEASE INFORM ME! My reason behing this list is mainly the feedback received on my past SSPokémon!AU fanarts and such. So yeah...sorry if you didn’t want to be tagged ;u; @revengeraptor @samthekoalabear @not-so-innocent-bi-sander@warnadudenexttime @anxious-fander-talian-bean@flynnisthename@anxiousoddish @madly-handsome @pastel-patton123 @virgil-angsty-sanders @smokeyrutilequartz @heythereprincey @ flowersquirl

 Virgil ended up taking into the nurse path after taking the job of being Nurse’s joy “errand boy” for a while. At that point in his life, he was actually living with Patton in his daycare, finally deciding to stop wondering the world after something he didn’t even know what was. He did help Patton around the daycare, but still liked to help the old nurse on the pokémon center every now and then. Patton obviously had nothing against it and even encouraged Virgil to do so, always happily saying how he could see Virgil’s anxious and reserved self slowly but surely start to dissapear as he could see the boy slowly start to open up easily to others and trust them a little bit more. The Nurse Joy he helped was already pretty old, having worked on what she loved for pretty much all her life, she was also always happy to have Virgil around even if just for the company, something about how when you worked on taking care of pokémon and seeing trainers come and go so fast, she barely was able to take a break, it was nice to have a helping hand other than from her pokémon. Until one day she asked Virgil if HE wasn’t interested in actually becoming a nurse himself, seeing that without even realizing Virgil DID start to do more than just “get her itens and medicine she had bought from town” and actually helping around with treating the pokémon that trainers would bring. Virgil obviously thought she was joking??? Like, Wasn’t becoming a nurse a Joy thing??? All nurses he had seen in his journey WERE Nurses JOY after all. Sure, he might had helped the poor woman with taking care of the pokémon bringing them their medicine and food, but surely being an ACTUAL nurse of a pokémon center was WAY Different than THAT. And most importantly, he still saw himself as an anxious mess, what if he couldn’t treat a pokémon properly?? what if he messed up and ended up giving the wrong treatment???  Joy answered his doubts. And say that no, while most nurses WERE Joys, it wasn’t actually a “only Joy” thing. Anyone could actually apply and study to become one, the Joys were simply the most famous and best at that, but that didn’t mean ALL Joys were nurses, or that all nurses WERE Joys, she knew the poor boy anxiety problem, but still tried to reasure that he would do fine, it wasn’t like he really needed to if he didn’t want to, it was just a suggestion of her, he obviously wouldn’t be at that boat alone, all his pokémon WOULD be able to help him around, even if he probably would get a new “healing pokémon”. All his pokémon already were pretty much therapy pokémon so, it would obviously be completely fine. But still. The final choice to apply and try out all the studies was his. Virgil didn’t think much of it then, but..the more he tought about it, somehow, the less strange it was??? He even talked with Patton and Logan about it, bringing the deal up as a joke, but then they both actually agreed it could be something he could do??? Again, it took a lot of talking from Patton’s and Logan’s side to make Virgil believe it was something he was capable of, and then a little more on Logan’s side pointing out the positive traits the study would bring, and finishing saying “You might study and finish it with golden stars, but it’s not like that means you ARE OBLIGATED to become a Pokémon Nurse. You can go for the knowledge, but if at the end of all, it isn’t something you want to do, you can come back. We won’t bring the deal anymore and we will support you in your decision.” That Virgil decided to actually go back to the Nurse Joy to ask where exactly he could apply to study, who not only gave him the adress, but also a recomendation letter that surely got him in the Pokémon Nurse university, and eventually finished with golden stars.

Now that THAT Part is out of the way... A little bit more about him once he became a Nurse:

While it is an POKÉMON center, specialized in taking care of Pokémon, he also takes care of trainers who might have been injuired or attacked by pokémon. Like, trainers under effects of a Paralizing Powder and stuff like that.

Virgil as a nurse is literally 30% less anxious, 60% more frustrated and 100% DONE.

Ask him “why there isn’t a hot nurse Joy working here instead of an emo kid”, I fucking dare you.

“Geez, I don’t know Derek, Maybe because the poor woman might have other dreams in mind and don’t want to stay behind a desk wearing all the shit that comes out of the mouth of guys like you??? Maybe she just didn’t want to become a nurse??? I DON’T KNOW DEREK, WHY ARE YOU HERE ASKING STUPID QUESTIONS WHEN THERE ARE TRAINERS ACTUALLY NEEDING TO HAVE THEIR POKÉMON HEALED AND ARE HAVING TO WAIT BECAUSE YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE THAT IS KEEPING ME FROM DOING MY WORK TO ASK QUESTIONS LIKE THIS HUH DEREK?!!? WHY?!?!!?”

Definitely not giving up his dark clothes and make-up simply because he now is a nurse. His uniform is literally more purple-ish than pink, and he only allows himself to wear the white apron.

He honestly just...worries. Which is something he always did. But now he is more worried because of how dumb some trainers seem to be like?? Why would you fight a LV35 Ursaring when your poor Bayleef is only LV17???? WHY Would you look at a dark forest full of wild Vileplumes and Glooms and think “Yeah, I can definitely go through there without a repellent or anything like that, i’ll be JUST FINE.” Seriously. He just can’t take all that anymore. 

All his friends are obviously proud as heck of him for becoming a Nurse, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get frustrated with them as well. 

More than once Patton was bought to the center after being poisoned by hugging a Muk. “Patton, tell me..WHY did you hug him?!?!” “HE LOOKED SAD!!!” “PATTON, HE’S LITERALLY MADE OF TOXIC AND POLUTION WASTE!!” “THAT ONLY MEANT HE NEVER HAD BEEN HUGGED, SO I DEFINITELY HAD TO HUG HIM!!!”

The others aren’t any different though.

“Logan, I swear, If you have to be bought here again because you exasted yourself to the point of collapsing, I am tying you up to the table.” “That’s ridiculous, I assure you, I am perfectly FINE! You and Patton are simply exagerating. I can define my working and resting time just fine.” “Logan, You do realize your Alakazam literally knows the pokémon center number right.” “....How does he even know how to dia-” “I gave him orders to keep an eye on you and literally put you to sleep using hypnosis if he sees you overworking yourself again.” “WHA- HOW- HOW DID YOU-” “I talked to him, i know. shocker. Don’t try me Logan. Just do what I say. DOCTORS orders.”

“Remy...what...what are you doing here...it’s...literally 3AM. WHY did you press the emergency alarm?!?!” “...’Cause it’s an emergency???” “... None of your pokémon are with you and you look fine.” “Im out of coffe Virgil.” “...wha-” “there’s none left home! :(” “...Remy, I already told you. The guy that runs the coffe bar here in the pokémon center only comes and open it up at 6:30AM. Go home.” “wait wait! I have another reason!” “...What.” “ I Came...uuuh...to hang?! :D” “Get the fuck out of my pokémon center, before I send you straight to an actual hospital.”

“Aaah, my fair Virgil...isn’t it amazing how after all those years, I’m now a famous Top coordinator, and you are coming out of your shell and helpng so many people! Isn’t it amazing?!?!” “The only amazing thing here Princey, is how the fuck you managed to actually win the Grand Festival when your moves are still mediocre at best. ;)” “ *offended princey noises* “ WHA- HOW DARE- YOU!! I- “Love ya too princey. Now here. Ariel is completely healed, thank you hope to see you soon. ” “....im not sure if you just want to see ME again, or if you want my pokémon to get hurt.” “And that is what you have to think about for the next contest~ Hope to see you in the judges line soon.”

His relationship with Roman still is...strange. They love eachother tho, no one say anything, they probably will realize by themselves. 

Yeah...probably.

He does still love contests and all that, he DID grew up around it. So he often is called to be one of the judges of the contests around, which is something he happily do if he isn’t too busy.

He got Audino from the old nurse Joy that got him to apply in the first place. She was a “new recruit” sended to her, but since she was retiring now that Virgil was taking her place in the Pokémon Center, she decided to let him have her.

Hey, she was purple, he wasn’t complaining.

She also is probably 30% of his emotional control now that he works at the pokémon center, so that is a bonus.

As Joy had said, he was able to keep his old pokémon with him and have them help around the center. Even if neither of them had healing abilities like Audino does, they manage to help in other ways.

Most of the time, they help with bringing itens and medicine he needs, but they also help the trainers around the center to wait for their turn so the whole thing doesn’t become a mess in days where the place is full.

Most people were rather...scared of having a GHOST type like Haunter in a place where it isn’t uncommon to have sick and hurt pokémon. But it didn’t take them long to realize that Virgil’s Haunter was literally the biggest goofball and prankster they had seen. He is AMAZING with baby pokémon and young trainers/children that come around the Pokémon center. There are literally days were schools would bring their pre-school studants to the pokémon center just to see Haunter. Virgil had agreed on it. Haunter definitely is happy to entertain the kids and to help spread that Ghost pokémon aren’t “evil” or something like that.

Mimikyu is ALSO a new addiction to the team, but it’s one that happened BEFORE he went to study. Mimikyu was a gift from one of the other guys to him. Who was that gave him a Mimikyu??? Mimikyu’s type is literally the only and big hint im leaving here. ;)

Mimikyu loves to wear bows, so Virgil always make sure to tie his “uniform” in one. The little guy LOVES it. Mimikyu mainly stays close to Virgil during the day though, helping him more behind the desk than anything. He still isn’t really used to big crowds. Virgil can understand that feeling.